Enthralled
by Kamikuro
Summary: Post DLC Tyranny of King Washington: the Infamy - Ratonhnhaké:ton is horrified to discover that he's not the only prisoner in His Majesty's court. Warnings for SLASH, master/slave dynamics, non-con, explicit sex, abuse, etc. King Washington/Haytham, Others/Haytham
1. Preamble and Warnings

Look, I'm just going to say it straight out. This story REALLY isn't for everyone. Actually, it's for almost no one but a very small minority of fan fiction readers. It contains graphic, explicit depictions of sex between men, most of it non consensual or of dubious consent, drugged sex, physical abuse, master/slave themes, violence, foul language, racial slurs directed at Native Americans... In other words, a lot of dirtybadwrong things. So if that's not your cuppa tea or coffee or bourbon or motor oil or whatever it is you drink, please don't read past this point, I gave you fair warning.

That being said, haters gonna hate, flamers gonna flame... annnd I really don't care. BUT, if you're reading this just to get upset and write pissy reviews or whatever, fine (everyone masturbates a little differently, I ain't one to judge), but be aware that I'm just going to laugh and smile because **you're still reading. And your reviews and hit counts will add to my story stats and make this abomination that you hate even more popular. **Yeeeeesssss... (evil diddly fingers)

Still with me? OK, cool.

A fill for the Asscreed Kink Meme. What is a Kink Meme, you might be asking? Well, it's this nifty thing where one anonymously proposes (or prompts, if you will) the plot of a story and then someone else (usually another anonymous party) does their best to make that happen. I had actually never heard of it until I stumbled on the site and saw the prompt for this story. The prompts and fills are often of a sexual nature, but not always, and are usually really creative and loads of fun to read and write.

**Spoilers, spoilers SPOILERS! For everything! Don't read past this point if you don't want spoilers for Assassin's Creed III or the Tyranny of King Washington DLC.**

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So this is the prompt:

_"So when Connor is hauled in as a present for Washington, he's not surprised to discover he's not the only prisoner been gifted to the King. What he is surprised to find is that his cellmate is Haytham, who was supposed to be dead. Haytham, however, is Washington's favourite pet, and keeps the man chained to his throne during the day to attend to any needs Washington may have. Due to drugs in his food and drink, Haytham is quite placid but also very sensitive to touch (especially under his snug collar) and trained to pleasure anyone that gets close enough. However, he's not brainwashed as the Apple couldn't break his mind._

_"When Connor is first put in with Haytham, Haytham doesn't recognise him and throws himself all over Connor, rutting against him. When Connor pries Haytham off and they both calm down, Haytham is horrified by how he reacted. Connor, initially disgusted, realises that Haytham didn't mean it._

_"Washington finds Connor more amusing as a fighter, and pits him against other prisoners. He has no sexual interest in Connor (he finds the Native Americans to be "filthy savages" and while he notes the physical similarities in Connor and Haytham, he doesn't realise they're related), although he does touch Connor inappropriately to see him riled up._

_"Connor helps Haytham wean off the drugs while Haytham tends to Connor's wounds and teaches him new physical moves to disable his opponents without killing them. Together, they plan to escape."_

Man, what a lengthy preamble. Anyway, on to the story.


	2. Chapter 1

The slave hears much but, truth be told, he retains very little of it these days. The words wash over him, meaningless. It is as if he floats in water, his ears beneath the surface. The voices are distorted, muffled and muted. Even when he does understand what is being said, he finds he has very little interest. Troop reports, pockets of resistance, towns put to the torch, civilians slaughtered... None of this has anything to do with him. His task is to wait, his body aching, until His Majesty has need of him, and that is what he does. There are moments, though... little glimpses of lucidity when the gloom sharpens and he can see things as they are, remembers things and he's not sure if they are memories or figments of a fevered imagination. Those moments are far and few between, but when they do happen, they make him wish he had the means to slit his own throat.

He stares blankly, straight ahead. The slave has this notion that maybe, once, things were different, that he was something more than a toy, a pet, but most days its all he can do to keep his eyes opened and focused, much less ponder over things that may or may not be. Some days he cannot not even manage that. He can barely feel the flagstone beneath his knees, the itch of the rough-spun against his skin, the cold of the iron around his neck. He cannot feel much of anything anymore, except for His Majesty's touch.

It isn't until the slave hears his master gasp that he rouses back nearer to the surface.

_"You!"_ his master gasps. He sounds shocked, livid. "How is it you live?"

He came to realize that there was a man in front of the throne in chains, he had been dragged before the throne against his will. This was unusual, to say the least. Many came before King Washington, to ask for favors, to bend the knee and pay homage, to repent and declare His Majesty the rightful king, but there were scant few that came by force. The scene feels familiar—wasn't he brought forward in a similar manner? Just how long ago had that been? He can't recall, realizes that he hasn't the faintest idea what season it is, much less what month or year, and feels vaguely disquieted.

The man brought before His Majesty is broad across the shoulders, tall, dark-skinned, corded with muscle, dressed in animal furs and leather. A native, then. The prisoner doesn't answer King Washington—a dangerous tactic. Instead, he stares at the slave, slack-jawed, plainly horrified. Dark brown meets dark gray. The slave stares back, mildly disconcerted by the sudden attention.

"Haytham?" the native asks, voice tremulous. The slave frowns back at him. Haytham? It sounds familiar. Was that his name? It had been so long since he had last heard it. The slave did not reply. The last time he had spoken out of turn... well, that was hazy as well, but whatever had happened had left him in agony for days, and even the mere thought of speaking made something painful clench in his guts. He was never to utter a word, unless it was to beg.

His Majesty gives a short, harsh bark of laughter.

"Oh, you two are acquainted, are you? Tell me, how does a dirt-worshiping monkey come to know a British Templar?"

"Goddamn you, Washington, what have you done to him?" the native's voice is hoarse with fury, and he throws himself forward, nearly breaking the grasp of the two soldiers restraining him. The slave crimps his lips together, brow furrowed. It is difficult to be certain of anything anymore, but he doesn't think he knows the man, doesn't recognize him in the slightest.

Again, that mirthless laugh. "At this point, perhaps it would be better to ask what I _haven't_ done to him." The master idly traces the ridge of his slave's ear with his fingernail, and _that_ he most certainly can feel, as sharp and urgent as a lick of flame, and he gives an involuntary, full-body shudder. "This is what happens to peons who presume to deny the power of the Apple."

With his other hand, His Majesty raises his scepter, and the room pulses with golden light. The stone faces of the guards that hold the native soften in adoration, their faces the very portrait of bliss. The native roars in agony, writhing in their arms. He thinks—if he tries hard enough, he can remember the sensation: like being in a roaring oven, blood boiling in the veins, feels like the skull is fit to split at the fissures. It seems like King Washington holds his scepter for a long time, and then he abruptly lowers it and the native goes limp against his bindings, gasping for air, shaking violently. When he looks up again, his face does not mirror the guards. Rather, his his features are contorted with rage and he bares his teeth, stark white against his dark skin.

"I will feed you your own heart!" he shouts, and begins to struggle anew. His Majesty sighs, as if he were a benevolent schoolmaster and the murderous native was nothing more than an unruly, head-strong pupil.

"Ah. I see you've in need of a more... objective lesson." The master rakes his fingers along the back of his slave's neck, near the collar, and this time it elicits a moan as well as a shiver. He leans into the touch and the sensation goes straight to his groin; the rough fabric of his trousers immediately feel uncomfortably tight. "You see, I have other ways to break a man to my will..."

His Majesty snaps his fingers, and the slave crawls on battered hands and knees between the seated man's legs. The slave's hands open his master's breeches with deft efficiency. His master is not wearing any small clothes, and his cock springs forth from confinement, already half-erect; using the Apple has that effect on him.

"Go on, show the savage how much you enjoy your captivity," says Washington, and the slave dutifully takes the head of his master's cock into his mouth. He ignores the acrid taste. He's done this countless times, and he quickly swallows the man to the hilt. His master sighs in appreciation and runs a hand through his slave's gray hair, scraping the scalp with his nails. The touch is electrifying; his skin flushes and he moans around the shaft, bobbing his head enthusiastically, tongue lathing the thick veins, flicking the bundle of nerves beneath the head. He's completely unselfconscious of the fact that he has an audience, oblivious to how the wet, sloppy sounds he makes with his mouth echo off the walls of the great hall.

"Stop this madness," he hears the native demand.

"Why? Obviously, our mutual friend has no objections."

"He is very clearly not himself."

"No. I found that man to be most disagreeable. I—oh..." He sighs in pleasure, bucks his hips, pressing himself deeper. "I much prefer this version—Gentlemen, the mongrel has adverted his eyes. Correct him."

There is a jingle of chains and the sound of a fist connecting to flesh. The native grunts but does not cry out. The slave does not concern himself. He concentrates on the feel of the hand fisting in his hair, the soft skin against his lips, the swollen head butting against the back of his throat. His master's thighs tense and there's that familiar little hitch in his breathing, and he knows he is close to his end.

"Touch yourself," he growls, and the slave does not need to be told twice. His hand goes to his trousers and pulls out his own cock, already hard. He palms himself, his hand is a blur and he moans around Washington's cock. He's close himself—he's always so close, it only takes the lightest of caresses to set his skin on fire and make him gasp and squirm.

His Majesty grunts, holds down his slave's head, and he takes it all without any protest, feeling the king's seed flood the back of his mouth, and he swallows hard to keep up, and he barely registers the repugnant taste because he's coming himself, moaning and thrusting into his own fist.

King Washington sighs contentedly, stroking his slave's hair. "Clean up your mess," he commands, and the slave lowers his head. He knows better than to use his hands; they still bear the marks from the last time he had made that mistake. He dutifully laps up his own seed from the stone floor between His Majesty's boots without a second thought.

The native makes a pained sound behind him. "You are a monster," he hisses. "There are—I have no words to describe this... this..."

"This is justice. He, too, threatened my life. If you are so concerned for his well-being, perhaps you would like to volunteer to take his place?" At that, the slave turns his head, looking back over his shoulder. The native's face is flushed with embarrassment and now he looks more disgusted than angry. He meets the slave's eyes but quickly looks away.

"No," he says, sullen.

"Good. Truth be told, I wouldn't dare pollute myself with some feral animal, even if your features are... somewhat comely. No. I think I have other plans for you..."


	3. Chapter 2

The door of his cell slamming open jars him awake. He had been dozing; His Majesty had seen fit to let him rest, and had sent him back to the little brick room with the iron bars. Two men manhandled a third into the cell, shoving him to the floor and then jumping back as the man whirled, snarling, and the guards quickly slammed the cell door and secured it before the man could throw his weight against it, screaming at them in some language that the slave didn't know. He thought he recognized the man—yes, it was the native from His Majesty's throne room. They had taken away his furs and leathers and replaced them with threadbare clothes that were little better than rags. He wears an iron collar as well. He stood there at the bars for a long time, breathing hard, hands gripping the bars as if he were going to try to pry them apart. He growled and slammed his fist against the bars, and then turned. It's several seconds before he notices the slave huddled on the pallet beneath the window, doing his best to appear as small as possible.

"Haytham?" That name again. The native rushes to him, his movements quick and sudden and the slave shrinks back against the wall. This is not the first time he has had another man brought to his cell; his skin is still mottled and bruised from the last incident. The native seems to note his reaction, for he stills. He squats down, slowly lowering himself until he's eye to eye with the cowering slave. "Haytham?" he repeats, softer. The slave slowly shakes his head. It's not him, not him, he has no name, why does he keep repeating that damned _name_?

"Haytham, do you know me?" he asks, voice soft, dark eyes imploring. The desperation in them makes him uncomfortable. The slave turns his head away. "Haytham, look at me." He does not, he stares at the wall, eyes unfocused. That's when the fingers touch him, burning into his cheeks as the native grips him with both hands, the callouses on the pads of his fingertips lighting him up, and his touch is gentle but firm as he guides the slave's head back to center.

"Please," the slave croaks, voice hollow and metallic from disuse.

The native asks him something else, his tone beseeching, but he doesn't know what the man is saying, can barely hear him, can't hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears and the rough pads of his thumbs are smoothing the wrinkles near his eyes with little licks of flame—

He leans forward and mashes his lips to the native man's. That's what he wanted, wasn't it? Wasn't that why he touched him like that, on the face, so intimately, so familiarly? His lips are chapped from exposure but the slave doesn't care and before the native can respond he sucks the lower lip into his mouth, worrying at it lightly with his teeth. The hands tighten against the sides of his face and the native pulls back with a gasp. His dark eyes are wide, shocked.

"Haytham," he says again, breathlessly, and the slave thinks maybe he likes the sound of it, the way the native says it, the way his tongue flicks against his teeth when the word falls from his full lips. "What are you—"

He catches the native off balance and he falls hard on his ass with a surprised grunt and the slave is atop him, gasping at the sensation of the body writhing beneath him. He cups the native's face, presses his own closer, moving in for another kiss, but the man wraps his arms around the slave and suddenly he finds himself on the floor again, the native straddling his waist, but that's alright, this is what he's used to, and he runs his hands up under the shirt, up hard planes of the native's chest, finds a nipple with his thumb.

"Have you gone insane?" The native gasps, the tone of his voice dismayed, shocked, but the slave only stares up at him, confused. Doesn't he want this? Isn't that why he's here? Why would he touch him, otherwise? Unconsciously, he rolls his hips, grinding against the younger man, thrusting, cock stirring to life—but the man sits down on him with almost painful force, trapping his hips, pinning him to the floor. He captures the slave's roaming hands and pins them to the ground on either side of his head. "Haytham, stop!"

Its a command. He always does as he's told. He's panting, flushed, already somewhat aroused, and the other man must feel it—there's no way he can't, he's practically sitting on it—and the native scrambles away, regaining his feet. The look on his face is pure revulsion and the slave cringes at the sight of it.

"What is wrong with you!?" he shouts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm your—" and then he stops himself, the last word echoing down the long hall and dying there. He shakes his head, leaving his thought unfinished. His face softens and he looks very sad. The slave doesn't know what to do with himself. This has never happened before, as far as his limited memory served. He scoots backwards until he can feel bricks and he draws his knees up to his chest. His wrists, hands, lips and face still burn, but that will fade, so long as the man doesn't touch him again. He shivers. It's cold, and the arrow-slit of a window has no glass. He wants a blanket, but the blankets are all on the pallet, and that's where the native man sits to bury his face in his hands and he doesn't want to go near him.

"World has gone mad," he moans, rubbing his temples. "Damn you, Washington..."

The slave sits, eyes unfocused, shivering, doing his best to melt into the wall. His teeth chatter. He flinches as something flies at him, but it's only a wool blanket that the native tosses his way. He quickly wraps it around his shoulders. The native stares at him, eyes searching his face, but he doesn't say anything. Eventually, after what might have been minutes or what might have been hours, the native flops down on the pallet with a frustrated sigh, his back to the wall, facing the door. After a while, the slave closes his eyes, and drifts.

Not long after, he hears voices and he's awake again. The native is on his feet, standing at the bars, ever tense.

"And where is mine?" he hears the man growl.

"You'll eat when ya earn yer keep," another voice answers. It's one of the guards. Something is slid across the flagstones beneath the bars. "This here's for His Majesty's pet. And if I find out yer stealin' scraps, I'll feed ya naught but rat meat, when yer turn comes."

Boots slap down the hall and they are alone again. The native swears something in his strange tongue, and picks a wooden tray off the floor. He sits in front of the slave, long legs tucked underneath him.

"I guess this is for you," the young man says bitterly, setting the tray before the slave. There's a stew in a wooden bowl, a half-loaf of bread greased with lard, greens, and tea in a gourd cup. There are no forks, knives or spoons, nothing metal, nothing that could be used as a weapon. The slave reaches for the tea. It steams invitingly, and he wants something warm. "Wait," the man snaps, and the slave pulls his hand back as if burnt. The native snatches up the crude cup.

"Sorry," the native mutters, but he does not give him the cup. Instead, he holds it close to his face, wide nostrils flaring. Tentatively, he sips it, and then makes a face and spits it out on the floor. He frowns at the slave. "Do you drink this every day? Do you have any notion what this is?"

It's a direct question. He has to respond. He can't remember if he ate yesterday, much less what he ate. "Tea," he whispers. The man does not look pleased by his answer.

"This is no mere tea," he says, scowling. "It's—" he says something very fast and incomprehensible in what must be Mohawk. "—or at least, that is what I think it is. It would explain your... sensitivity to touch." The native looks perturbed and his cheeks darken in embarrassment.

He stands, taking the gourd with him. The window is just wide enough to accommodate his hand and wrist, and the tea splashes to the ground below. The slave is disappointed but not upset. By tomorrow, he will have forgotten all about it. The man examines the tray again, and this time picks up the greens. Sniffs it, tears off a miniscule amount and chews it. This, too, his spits out. He stares at the slave for a long time, brow furrowed.

"And this too, I suppose they give you this every day." He sounds angry, and the slave draws back instinctively, but the ire is not directed at him. He takes the greens and throws these out the window as well. He sits again. Next he picks up the bowl of stew and sniffs that, dips a finger to taste, and for a moment the slave worries that this, too, he will take and dispose of, but the young man sets it back on the tray with much reluctance. "I think this is fine."

The young man's stomach growls like a feral animal, and he sighs. The slave considers this for a moment, picks up the bread, and holds it out. The native gives it a hard stare, then looks the slave up and down. "You need it more than I do," the young man says. The slave rips it in half, and holds this out. The native takes it, careful not to brush fingers with the other man, and then bites into it ferociously. He devours it before the slave finishes chewing his second bite.

The native sits and watches him, eyes thoughtful. At first, he wonders if it is because he wants more food, but he doesn't ask for any. For a moment, the slave thinks the young man looks... familiar, somehow. Something about the eyes. And then the moment is gone again, and he's just some man that's in his cell, but doesn't want to touch him.

"It is not the Apple at all, is it? It doesn't effect you. It is all the herbs." The corners of his mouth upturn slightly; it is not quite a smile. "Perhaps there is a way out after all."


	4. Chapter 3

One day, he has a headache.

It's a minor thing, just an irritating tingle behind his right eye, but he doesn't remember ever experiencing the sensation before, and the ache makes him slightly anxious and confused. When His Majesty and a guest have their way with him in the throne room that afternoon, the pain worsens, but not too intolerably.

When he is returned to his cell in the evening, there is a native waiting for him. The eyes look familiar. He has seen him before, he thinks. "Clean up His Majesty's pet, savage," instructs the guard before he locks the door and leaves. The native looks at the slave with dismay. The cell is not completely without comfort; there's a small wash basin. The native tells him to sit on the pallet he does so, albeit gingerly, still tender.

"I'm going to touch you," says the native carefully, "but I _do not_ want you to touch me. At _all_. Understood?" The slave nods warily. When the native runs a wet cloth over his face and neck, he shivers in delight. When the young man asks tells him to take off his shirt and pants that he might wash beneath, he does so without hesitation. The man gasps and asks what they did to his back, tells him that it's crisscrossed in scars, and the slave doesn't know what to tell him; he hadn't known.

"And your fingers?"

His fingers? He stares at his hands knotted in his lap and realizes with a start that he only has eight fingers. The ring finger on his right hand has been reduced to the first joint, and the smallest finger next to it is missing entirely. The scar tissue is thick, but well healed; an old trauma, then. Even more disturbing, though, is he realizes that he doesn't remember _why_ he's missing his fingers. How had it happened? One doesn't just _loose_ _fingers_. Try as he might, though, all he can remember of the incident is a flash of searing pain, and eyes that are the color of fresh spring grass.

"I don't know," he admits, quietly. The young man looks sad. Further down, the native's face flushes and bids the slave to do the rest himself. When dinner comes, there are two trays. The native takes both, only permitting the slave his meal after he removes some sort of vegetable from his tray and wastefully dumps his tea out the window. Later, they both climb onto the pallet, which is just large enough for two, and the slave thinks that perhaps the man will want to touch him, but native wraps himself tightly in one of the blankets and turns his face to the wall.

The next day, the ache is worse, has spread to the side of his head. Disjointed thoughts assault him out of no where, flashes that pound at his brain but then vanish again so quickly that he can't make any sense of them. A ship at sea. A painted cave. A circle of strange metal with a hole in the middle. The eyes of the boy in someone else's face. When he is brought back to his cell, this time he is not surprised to see the native boy there. When the two are alone, the native asks him how he is feeling. The slave has a notion that the native has asked him this before. He confesses to nothing; not his growing unease, nor the first stirrings of panic, nor the constant throb of pain in his skull. When dinner comes, the man takes his tea and vegetables, and then throws them out the window.

The day after that, he knows there is something very wrong. He kneels to the right of His Majesty's throne. The collar around his neck feels very heavy, the chain seeming to weigh him down, a long snake of dead iron resting between his shoulder blades and down his spine. He feels miserable. He sweats even though there is a chill in the air and shivers uncontrollably. The pounding behind his eyes is relentless.

He looks around, tries to find a distraction from the pain. He regards his surroundings; it has been a long time since he has had any interest. He thinks that maybe, at some point, the great room was some sort of banquet hall. His Majesty's throne sits upon a large dais flanked by large, sweeping staircases. The walls that are not occupied by large paintings are adorned with muskets, pistols, sabers and swords of all different vintages and qualities, arranged in patterns and juxtapositions that are both menacing and disorienting. Long tables that could easily sit twenty men have been turned over on their sides in the center of the room, arranged in a circle, legs pointing outwards.

A crowd has gathered, mainly soldiers but there are a few gentlemen in powdered wigs as well. They cheer and curse at two men in the center of the ring of tables, passing money back and forth and shouting out what he assumes are gambling odds. The two men are both naked to the waist. One is the native boy that was in his cell when he was roused that morning, the other is a white man. They circle each other, grappling and punching. He thinks he can hear the boy's voice, hears something echo off the high ceiling that sounds like a plea. Is he trying to reason with the man he's fighting? If so, he may as well yell at stone for all the good it would do.

There's something he doesn't like about the boy. He doesn't trust him. The boy... _did_ something. He doesn't know what, or when, but something had happened between them that had not ended well for the slave. The sight of the boy makes him uneasy. Improbably, he thinks of the colors white, red, and blue. But the boy is wearing brown, his skin is brown, his eyes are brown. Only his teeth are white. And when did he start thinking of him as "the boy," anyway? Clearly, he is a man. Young, yes, but very obviously a grown man.

He looks away. He's seen these sorts of bouts before; sometimes they are fought bare-fisted, like today, other times with knifes, clubs, swords and spears. No matter what weapons are used, the outcome is always the same: one man walks away, the other does not. Although something about the boy troubles him, he does not want to watch the boy beaten to the ground, to watch the light fade in his eyes and his face and body go slack on the floor.

A hand trails lazily across his cheek and his breath hitches in his throat.

The burn is still there, but it's a reduced sensation, not as intense or urgent, and when he shudders it is more from revulsion than pleasure. He tries to ignore it, but there's a tightness coiling in his guts, and what's left of his hands clench in the rough material of his pants. His head pounds as loud and insistent as a warning bell. Not again. This is wrong, shameful. His Majesty's hand continues to wander, pressing against his lips, and the slave has no choice other than to open his mouth, admitting the fingers. They taste like butter and salt, probably from His Majesty's luncheon. He sucks on them obediently, lapping at them with his tongue as the king thrusts them in and out of his mouth.

In short order, a hand grabs his collar and he is jerked roughly upwards. He gets to his feet, unsteady; it feels as if the ground is shifting beneath his feet. He comes to stand before the king.

"Breeches off," the king commands and his throat goes dry. That's the last thing he wants to do, the room is thronged with people, and this is shameful, what they're doing, but the worst thing he can do is disobey. Clumsy fingers undo the drawstring at his navel and the garment falls to the floor. He kicks it aside.

"What's this?" His Majesty pushes aside the frayed hem of the shirt and grips his slave's flaccid cock in his spit-soaked fingers. Normally, he'd be half on his way to an erection by now, simply from the caress of bare flesh against his skin. "Are we feeling neglected, pet?" His words are amused, but there's an irritated edge to them; he's displeased.

He doesn't respond, but his master gives his cock a few firm pumps and he moans helplessly, bucking into his fist. There's the burn, the skin to skin contact that he desperately needs, and his cock twitches to life. _Traitor_, he thinks. The king's member is already hard; he can see the bulge in His Majesty's breeches. He wonders what prompted it; was it watching two men attempt to beat each other bloody? The thought makes him nauseous. The king frees himself with his other hand, gives that a few strokes as well, and eases his own breeches further down his hips. The slave doesn't dare look him in the face, but he can see the other man's smirk in his periphery. He can feel the flush spreading over his face, spreading down his chest, his breathing is uneven and has a harsh edge to it. The pounding of his heart is as hard as the pounding in his head.

"Up with you," His Majesty commands, and the slave resists the urge to cringe, knowing what's to come next. Can't his master see that he's unwell? Can he not detect the tremor in his limbs, see the beads of perspiration on his brow, how ragged his breathing has become? Perhaps he had somehow mistook the signs for lust. Or maybe he simply didn't notice at all—that was more likely. Even as the slave clumsily mounts the broad seat of the throne, his knees to either side of his master's hips, his hands gripping the back of the gilded throne, his master's attention is focused beyond his slave's shoulder, on the combatants.

Two fingers probe his entrance—they're slicked with something, oil or grease, perhaps from the plate of sweet meats half consumed at the king's right hand. He knows he has to bare down, but his mind is panicking and his body isn't cooperating, and he gasps as His Majesty's fingers enter him, fingernails grazing the sensitive flesh.

"Relax!" he growls, but the tone has the opposite effect, and when another finger is added, the three of them thrust upward, a little cry of pain and fear escapes. A slap—the cheek of his ass smarts with pain.

"What's wrong with you?" His Majesty hisses. Dizzily, the slave wonders the same thing, his mouth bowing unhappily. _What's wrong with me? What's wrong with YOU?_ The hand that had so roughly entered him withdraws and clasps his chin, forces him to meet his master's gaze. His bright cornflower blue eyes are narrowed in displeasure. His Majesty sees his sweat, his fever-bright eyes, his drawn and pained expression—sees and apparently does not care.

"Fuck yourself," he commands. Trembling, the slave reaches beneath himself, finds His Majesty's cock and places the head against his asshole. Holding his breath, he lowers himself, feels the fat head of it part that tight ring of muscle, and can't tell if the burn is from pleasure or pain. He hesitates, lips pressed into a bloodless line, eyes squeezed shut.

Hands grip hard enough to bruise, slam him down, and he can't choke back his scream.

It's been a long time since he's been treated so roughly. He tries to take slow, deep breaths, to elevate himself above pain, but as soon as the king sheaths himself, he lifts his slave and slams him back down again—stabbing him, flesh in flesh—and then a third time for good measure. The king groans low in his throat, rolling his hips.

"Is this how you want it?" he asks. The slave fervently shakes his head. "Then do as I demand."

He does, limbs trembling, flexing the muscles of his thighs. The hands relax on his hips, and one goes to his diminished erection, and he grits his teeth. He doesn't want this, he does_ not_, but his body betrays him and with a few pumps, he's hard again, bucking up into his master's hand as much as he's forcing his hips down on King Washington's cock. He hates the reaction, the way his body automatically shifts, churns his hips, looking for the place inside him that makes him moan and shudder and lights him up from the inside out. Some part of him wants it—no, _needs_ it. Loves the way he impales himself until he's uncomfortably full, delights in the way his body stretches to accommodate his master, muscles fluttering eagerly around that column of hard, invading flesh—but his mind is panicking. The more aroused he becomes, the sicker he feels, the higher his fever climbs, and the throbbing in his head is pure agony.

The slap of thighs against ass rings off the walls. He hears snickers and laughing behind him, tries to ignore it, but the words fall like blows. Whore. Slut. Bitch. His face burns with shame, but he can't stop the downwards thrust of his hips, not when he's so close, not when his master's hand circles his shaft, milking the head with brisk jerks, kneads his heavy balls, making him moan with want.

But his mind interferes. His guts threaten him, though, make him aware that in no uncertain terms that if he continues things are going to end badly. Bile rises in his throat as well as panic. His movements become uncoordinated, hesitant, sloppy, and his master grunts in annoyance, grasps him by the hips and slams him down again, mercilessly. He struggles for air—it feels like he can't get enough, like he's trying to breathe through a reed, and his body writhes uselessly, limbs trembling. He can't help but wonder why, why is this happening?

And then a thought bubbles to the surface of his tortured mind: all of this—his missing fingers, the scars, the cock rudely forcing his body to suit his master, even the boy in the ring of tables fighting for his life, the throne beneath his bruised knees and the crown upon His Majesty's head—all of it is somehow his fault, that it's a fact that's as immutable and undeniable as the sky is blue, water is wet, and fire burns.

His Majesty groans, jerking his property down, burring himself to the hilt, and the slave can feel the man's cock pulse, feel the wetness—and his body spasms as well, but for an entirely different reason. He scrambles back, fist clenched over his mouth. His Majesty makes some angry word of protest, but he's already unseating himself, feels the king's cock slide free with a sickening pop, feels the hot mess run down his thighs and onto the plush, velvet seat. A hand grabs his wrist but he wrenches away with all the strength he has left to him, climbs off the throne, collapses on the ground on his hands and knees, and vomits.


	5. Chapter 4

He's back in his cell; it's nearing dusk, judging by the light. Something looms above him, a face, and when his eyes swung into focus, his hand tightens in a fist.

"Open your mouth," the man says. He obeys, but not without hesitation. He knows this man, has never felt so sure of anything. _Doctor_, he thinks, and then _mercenary. Traitor._ The man shoves two fingers in his mouth. Unlike when his master touches him, there is nothing even remotely sexual about this. He's not sure if he wants to suck or bite, so he does nothing. The fingers depress his tongue, run along his teeth, hook his lip and prod his gums. The fingers withdraw then return to press at his neck, dig into flesh where his jaw meets his throat. His fingers feel cold on his burning skin. The man's face is blank.

"And do _you_ have any history of illness?" He frowns. He doesn't know what to say.

A voice speaks up. "A few weeks ago, I was also sick, but I am fine now," the native boy says. There's something about the boy's voice—a tremor in the lower register, a slight hesitation—and he knows it's a lie. If the man catches it, he doesn't call him out on it.

"Hmm. Figures. You're probably crawling with disease, like the rest of your kind," the man says with a dismissive sniff.

"At least my 'kind' do not need to be told not to take water from where they defecate. Unlike white men."

"Your insolence will be the death of you, savage," he grumbles.

"I hardly think you will be the man to deliver it," he native coolly replies.

The face swims out of view and he's left with the mottled gray of the ceiling. The man prattles out a list of tasks to the native and then leaves, the guard slamming the bars shut behind him. He's so weak that he doesn't even turn his head to watch him go.

Time ceases to make sense, much less have any meaning. Sometimes the room is lit by the sun for only minutes, and sometimes nights last for eternity, and vice versa. Day, night, night, day, it makes no matter. He sweats, moans and shivers. Disjointed images race through his mind, and he knows they are not dreams or hallucinations, but _memories_—except that they _can't_ be memories because they don't make the slightest sense_._ He struggles to construct order out of the mess that bubbles to the surface of his fractured mind. His memories have been doubled, like some sort of printer's error; two blocks of text appearing in a book where only one should exist, the letters overlapping and jumbled, and there's two stories with similar characters mashed together, each with their own disparate plots.

—The woman screams at him, tells him that it's over between them, that he must leave and never return, and it's both winter and summer. She stands both in snow and amongst wild flowers. In winter she is alone, stone knife brandished in a clenched fist—in summer, her fierce brown eyes are mirrored in the frightened boy's tan face, her arms wrapped around the child possessively—

—It's Washington himself at the door, wringing his tricorn hat in his hands, disheveled and perspiring from his hard ride from Mount Vernon, and the general won't quite meet his eyes. The war effort needs more support and funds, he says, that liberty and freedom will only sustain mens' hearts, not their bodies, and it was the duty of patriotic gentlemen such as themselves to provide support. As if owning a few slaves, growing tobacco, and strutting about in finely tailored broadcloth cloaks qualified this up-jumped planter's son as a _gentleman_. One scathing look, a sharp word and he withers—but he's not in his plantation manse, he's in a cold cell, and his new "owner" laughs, eyes hot and confident, and he _hates_ that laugh, wants to silence it forever by ripping out the man's throat with his bare hands, but he cannot, not with his arms lashed behind his back, not with the man's hand roaming possessively up the bare skin of his inner thigh—

—Shells hammer all around him, the battlements pitted and broken, the courtyard grounds choked with smoke. He's in New York. Cannon fire from the bay. Cannon fire from the streets. He sees the naked terror in the native's eyes as his hands tighten around the boy's neck—and at the same time, he himself is on his back, a boot heel complete with spur digging into his own throat, pale green eyes regarding him without sympathy, mercy, or remorse, and his vision explodes in black and red stars—

"Please," he begs, but he can't articulate what he wants, can't put the depth of his misery into words, he just wants it to stop. It's impossible. There can't be two sets of events, one of them must be some figment of his fevered dreaming, but each dual reality is so convincing, so solid, that he can't determine the truth from the falsehood.

The native boy is a constant presence. He wipes down the fevered skin of his face and body with a cool, damp rag, puts on more blankets and then removes them after they're soaked through with sweat, provides a bucket when the food won't stay down or he needs to piss, puts a hand behind his head and bids him to drink more water, holds cups of soup to his lips. He drinks obediently, eats the food that is given to him—that is, until he decides to refuse.

"It is alright, Haytham, drink. You will feel better."

"_...Haytham, the artifact has been intercepted..."_

"_...be a good Templar, Haytham, and give us what we want..."_

"_...We had an agreement, Haytham. He is MY son as well as yours..."_

"No," he croaks, and turns his head away from the proffered cup. From anyone else he would expect violence—a slap to the face, a yank of the hair, a sharp punch to the guts, but the boy is different. He actually smiles. It's not hateful or full of painful promise, but of genuine pleasure.

"'No?' Did you just refuse me?"

"No," he repeats, stronger, puts a hand on the boy's shoulder in a feeble attempt to push him away, but the boy is stone beneath his rough-spun shirt. "What did you do to me?"

It's the boy's fault. The disjointed voices and images in his head, his fever, his pain; it's all the boy's fault. It _must_ be. Before, everything had been... Well, not _fine._ Certainly not. But he had been content in his subservience, oblivious to his own suffering, and that had been close enough.

"I'm helping you," he says, the smile disappearing, dark eyes beseeching.

Helping? _This_ was 'helping?'

"If you want to help me, kill me," he rasps, and he means it. Anything is better than this misery, better than... remembering.

The boy's eyes look strange; sad and angry all at once. His words are cryptic.

"Not this time."


	6. Chapter 5

Something is burning his face.

Blearily, he opens one eye, and winces. He's in his cell. He's cold; his shirt is missing, and at some point he had kicked the heavy blankets off. The arrow slit of a window has been stuffed with rags to help ward off winter's chill, but there is a slight gap at the top, and a spot of sunlight falls directly on his face. It's morning. He groans, flings a thin arm over his eyes, and rolls his head away.

There's a rustle below him and to the left. He freezes. He's not alone. His eyes snap back open.

The _boy_.

He'd made a nest of rags and blankets on the stone floor next to the pallet. He uncurls and props himself up on one elbow.

"Haytham? How are you feeling?" he asks. His voice is weary but full of genuine concern. He looks like hell. His eyes are red-rimmed and dark-circled, and there are mottled bruises on his face, faded to a blotchy yellow-green pallor. His lip had been split not long ago, and still looks swollen and tender.

Haytham. Yes. He's Haytham. His tongue darts out to wet cracked, dry lips. His voice is rough, and sounds like a stranger's to his ears.

"Connor."

The man's eyes go wide and his mouth falls open briefly, and then he smiles wide, white teeth flashing, eyes glinting. He scrambles closer on hands and knees, his large hand gripping Haytham's shoulder, his face a mere foot away.

"_Yes!_" he exclaims, and then again, "Yes—Do you remember me?"

Yes. Oh, yes, he most assuredly does. He remembers _everything_.

The slap connects with the sharp report of a gunshot—Connor reels back, hand to his face, eyes wide, shocked, baffled. Haytham tries to get to his feet but his legs won't cooperate and they splay out as if he's a newborn calf. He collapses to his knees with a gasp of pain. Connor reaches out to grasp an arm but Haytham slaps that as well, scrabbling away from the man.

"Don't touch me!" he shouts.

"Haytham! Please, what—?"

"What in hell have you done to me?" His voice sounds high, almost hysterical to his own ears, almost a shriek, and the echo of it bounces off the brick walls and carries down the long hall. Connor's eyes are wide with alarm and shock.

"_Quiet! _Do you wish to bring the guards down on us?" He hisses, "I was trying to help you!"

"Why?" demands Haytham. Connor stares at his father, open-mouthed, aghast, as if _Haytham_ is the crazy, unreasonable one.

"'Why?' Because you were being..." Connor blushes beneath the bruises and looks at the floor, clearly dismayed. Ah. Yes, _that_. Connor shakes his head. "Because there is a madman with an army of unthinking slaves who has styled himself a king! Because we need to rally support, we must find a way to defeat him! Because we need to get out of here!"

"And how will 'we' manage that?" is Haytham's terse demand.

Connor's brow beetles and he stammers, "I had thought that—you are by his side, almost every day—you must have some idea as to how—"

"Fool boy—he has a Piece of Eden." He manages to stagger to his feet, though he still leans against the wall for support. The effort leaves him slightly breathless. "He's unstoppable. It's hopeless to even think—"

"It is _not_ hopeless," snaps Connor, "_nothing_ is hopeless, not while you and I are still in control of ourselves."

"In control? _Look_ at me, boy!" He's a ruin of the man he used to be. Muscles that had rippled with a lifetime of training and hard work had been withered to practically nothing. He spreads his mangled hands, indicates the badly healed ribs that show through drum-taut skin, crisscrossed with scars. "What good am I to anyone like this?"

_Well. Obviously Washington still finds a use for me_, he thinks, and the violent shudder that racks his body has nothing to do with the chill of the cell.

Connor frowns deeper. Obviously, this was not the reunion he had been expecting. What had he wanted? An effusion of praise? That Haytham would fall into his arms and weep for joy? Thank the lord for his delivery and reveal a meticulous, carefully reasoned and dashing plan for escape?

"What would you have had me do, then?" he asks, a raw, frustrated edge to his voice. "Leave you insensate and enslaved?"

"And now I am cognizant and enslaved. Believe me, it's _not_ an improvement. It would have been a far kinder mercy to have just killed me."

Connor's face is solemn. "You cannot mean that."

He throws up his hands. "It's over, boy. I lost. I have nothing left. May as well be by your hand, rather than... the inevitable."

"I cannot kill you," he says, dark eyes mournful and brimming with reproach.

Haytham's mouth twists into an unpleasant thing somewhere between a wry, mirthless smile and a pained grimace.

"No? You managed well enough once before!"

Connor's face contorts and he looks torn between agony and rage. "That was a different time—a different _world_! And you were trying to kill me!"

_Had_ he tried to kill the boy? He wasn't sure. The incident had happened a lifetime ago, and the night had been a total chaos of bombs, fire and blood. He could remember being blinded by rage and pain, blinking blood out of his eyes from where his bastard son had cut open his brow with a broken bottle. Every labored breath had brought an agony of protest from his all-but-certainly broken ribs and his useless left hand had been slick with his own blood. He remembered wanting the boy to stop—to just _stop._ To stop struggling, to stop resisting fate, to stop being so willfully ignorant of human nature, to stop being so full of goddamned _hope_—

Still, Haytham denies, "Like hell I was, if I had wanted you dead—"

"So you were only pretending to kill me? You had your hands around my neck! I could not breathe!"

The boy has him there. Facts are facts. Regardless, Haytham glares at him. "Well. I suppose none of that really matters now, does it? As you say, it was different world."

Connor's face contorts. "Does not matter—!" He stops himself, gives an irritated huff. "Fine. We should be planning our escape. I thought that you would be more thankful that you were no longer senseless," says Connor darkly. Haytham's lip lifts in a snarl.

"'Thankful?' The things they've done, what I was forced to do—I was oblivious to it! Do you know what—" he hesitates, can't bring himself to say the man's name, damn him, "—what he'll do to me, once he finds out? Do you have even the slightest notion as to what you've done to me?"

"_You_. It has always been about you, has it not, _father_?" the word is hurled like a curse. He thumps his chest. "What about me? Do you even care about what they are making _me_ do? Your son?"

His startled mind casts about for a moment. Notes the yellowing bruises on Connor's face, the fresh and tender scar tissue of the man's sharp knuckles. Vaguely, he recalls the fights, the impromptu ring in the middle of the throne room, the smell of stale sweat and fresh blood, screams and howls of the combatants echoing over the excited chatter and hoots of the gamblers and spectators. His Majesty's _other_ special hobby.

"I'm so sorry. I forgot how violence makes you wilt like a lily in the sun."

Connor's eyes narrow. "You are the most hateful, selfish prick I have ever known—"

"Oh, the pot calls the kettle black, boy! You tried to 'help' me? I can see right though your so-called concern. You're only trying to help yourself after you were foolish enough to be taken alive—if you had ever given a damn about me, you would have come before I'd been reduced to _this!_"

"I did not even know you were here! Mother said that you were dead!" Of course Ziio would say that. He can see her reasoning; better Connor to think his father rotting in the ground than alive and His Majesy's most exalted whore. It does not, however, make her omission any less painful. "Washington has misused you, yes, made you do unspeakable things, but your own suffering pales beside his other crimes. Do you even know what he has done—what he is still doing to people? Do you even care?"

"I cared enough to lead the goddamned Colonial resistance, you ignorant little shit," he seethes.

Haytham can see that he's found the limit of the boy's patience. Connor's hands pull into fists, jaw clenches, and for a moment Haytham thinks that perhaps the boy will do some throttling of his own, but instead he releases a long breath through flared nostrils, forces his fingers to straighten, palms flat against his thighs.

"Tell me what happened." It's a command, not a request.

"Go to hell," Haytham suggests.

"We are already _in_ hell!" is Connor's outraged response.

Connor makes to continue his abuse but the sound of footfalls echoing down the hall gives him pause. Haytham's blood turns cold. If there was any color left in his pale face, it vanished. The cell faces a blank wall. Connor stalks up to the bars and presses the side of his face against them to sight down the long passage. He holds up three fingers to Haytham. Idiot. Haytham could have told him how many there were by ear alone. Two of the men are booted, judging by the heavy tread, the third has the sharper snap of shoes.

Haytham sits down heavily on the pallet, clamps his hands between his knees so no one can see how badly they tremble. He doesn't look up when he men come to stand outside. Connor stands near the bars, defiant, and does not even flinch when one of the men clangs the bars with the butt of a musket.

"Well. His Majesty's pet looks much improved." Benjamin Church. The man who was twice a traitor. Rage sings through his veins, tempered with an equal amount of fear. He forces his eyes to the ground. If the king's physician even suspects something is off about Haytham's demeanor, that he had been restored to his cognitive faculties...

"No thanks to you," says Connor. Church merely shrugs.

"He was either to improve, or he was not. I adjusted his medications and left you instructions, and it seems that that worked well enough. He's no longer sweating, at least." He tilts his head slightly. "Though he looks pale yet. You've been feeding him?"

Connor's head jerks up in affirmation.

"He'll be fine, then. Or not. I suppose it matters little."

"He is your patient," snaps Connor. "I thought doctors swore oaths to help those in need."

Church chuckles. "He's of little consequence; he ceased to be amusing long ago. Healthy or sick, fair or foul, I suspect I'll not need attend him much longer." Haytham commands himself to keep breathing evenly, to not make any indication that he had heard anything of note. What was Church getting at?

"But he was your Grandmaster!" Connor sounds shocked by Church's indifference.

"'Was' being the operative word. He ceased to be worthy of that title the day he lost his mind." Church shakes his head. "Delusional fool. How he expected to keep this country from His Majesty's glorious influence, I can't even begin to imagine."

"_...So sorry, Kenway. But I always back the winning horse..."_

"Well, I've other duties. Good day, savage. _Master _Kenway_._" His voice drips with mockery. He turns and leaves. The two guards linger. One comes forward with a trays in either hand. He slides them though the gap beneath the bars.

"Best not get too comfortable," the man advises, "His Majesty will be wanting the both of you soon enough."

Haytham can barely hear their retreat over the throb of blood singing in his ears. He clenches his fists in the loose fabric of his trousers and resists the urge to scream. Goddamned traitorous, cowardly _bastard_... He barely notices when Connor takes both trays, sets one down on the floor, but he does note when the boy begins to remove the rags from the window.

"What are doing?" Haytham demands.

"Helping you by disposing of your poisons," says Connor coldly, "whether you accept it or no."

"What poisons?" he asks. "What are you talking about?"

"This," says Connor, and points to the greens, "is what they've been using to control you. Achilles spoke of it. The Haitian witch-doctors use it to bend victims to their will, to make them their 'zombies.' And this tea is a... I do not know the word in English. Afra-something..."

"Aphrodisiac," supplies Haytham, frowning. So, that's what had induced his apathetic state, reduced him to little more than an animal reacting to external stimuli.

"Yes, as you say. You should feel honored; this is very expensive. The kings of China use it on their slave-women, I hear." He picks up the cup.

"Wait!" he commands sharply.

Connor looks at him. "What?"

"Give me the tea."

Connor's eyes narrow. "No," he says.

"I _need_ it," he says with rising urgency, and feels a surge of panic when he begins to tip the hollow gourd. "I'll scream!" he warns him. Connor cocks a dark eyebrow.

"Then scream," he suggests, sardonic, but there's a steel edge to his tone and his eyes glitter dangerously. "Let the guards know what I have done and that you are fully aware and wish to die. I am sure they will oblige you. That is what you want, is it not?"

Yes. No... he's not sure. He crimps his lips together in a thin, bloodless line. Haytham has nothing to live for, sees the days stretch out before him, a series of tortures, trials and humiliations that will certainly end in death—or, worse, his submission, mind shattered—and despairs. But does he want to kill his son as well? That's what would surely happen, if they were to discover Connor's interference. Or worse, they might do to him what they had done to Haytham, a punishment he wouldn't have wished on even his most hated enemies.

"You heard the guard, boy. We'll be at court today, and I'm not a young man anymore. If I can't..." he shivers. "If I don't preform as expected... they'll know. And then we'll both be dead men." Or worse, he could have said.

The boy frowns, taking his meaning, he sets the cup back on the tray. "You cannot have the other," he says, and takes a fist full of the greens to shove under the bed, presumably because his actions would be noticed in the daylight. "It is too dangerous."

"And what gives you the right to make that decision for me?" demands Haytham acidly.

"You are in no position to stop me," says the boy coolly. Well, that's apparent. The two men had been of a similar size and build once, but Haytham is but a shadow of his former self, and his son is very clearly in the prime of his physical abilities.

"Very well. You'll have to sleep eventually," Haytham reminds him darkly. For an instant, there is a flicker of doubt, of fear, but it's gone again, and the boy looks almost smug.

"Even if you had the strength to kill me, you would not," he says in a matter-of-fact way that makes Haytham bristle further.

"Oh?"

"Because they would know it was you." He slides Haytham's tray across the pallet. "Better eat. I suspect Washington has missed us. It will be a long day."

He's hungry, but the thought of what's to come turns Haytham's stomach to knots.


	7. Chapter 6

The doors to the throne room are thrown open and Haytham is yanked through by his chain, like a misbehaving dog who has not yet learned to heel. There's a little knot of men standing in the center of the room that turn to look his way. There's something strange about the mobility of their faces, about the animation of their gleaming eyes. They are not under Washington's control, he realizes. They are still their own men.

They stare at him, dismay and fear plain upon their faces. As the guard leads Haytham towards them, they draw away from him as if he has the pox. He recognizes a few. There—the fat one. Wasn't he... yes. Samuel Chase, one of the Maryland delegates to the Continental Congress. And there, James Wilson, from one of the Carolinas, he couldn't remember which. Others he knew by their faces, but couldn't place names to them.

Two of them whisper behind their hands as Haytham is lead past.

"Good lord, is that—?"

"I think so. I'd heard he was dead."

"Apparently not. Although he does look like death warmed over..."

"How dare you presume to judge me, Mr Jefferson," he hears Washington growl, and it's as if someone has dumped freezing water down the back of Haytham's shirt. He's furious. There would be hell to pay; Haytham just prayed that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of it.

The voice that answers him has a soft drawl to it. "I've never judged you, my friend. I was merely suggesting—"

"You haven't the slightest clue what I faced—you sat at home, cozy and warm, while I was at Valley Forge. I sent hundreds of letters to Congress—perhaps a thousand—and I received naught but excuses!"

Haytham sees him. Washington's face looks livid and his eyes glitter dangerously under his furrowed brow. He's the tallest man in the room and looms over almost everyone else, all but the man before him. The other man is nearly as tall, but whereas Washington is powerfully built, this other man is more slender and lanky. Haytham notes the reddish hair, angular nose and long face. Thomas Jefferson. He looks ill-at-ease, but remarkably calm for someone staring death in the face.

"I asked for more soldiers, and was sent half-starved, unruly boys and troublesome miscreants," Washington continues, pacing back and forth on his dais, "I begged for bandages, blankets, warm clothes—"

"George—" Jefferson pleads, but Washington cuts him off.

"Boots! Even just shoes I would have been grateful to get. I had to march my men barefoot through the snow. They left their skin behind when they stepped on the ice. There was so much blood on the road you would have thought we were dragging butchered hogs behind us."

"There were no shoes to be had! Not in New England, not even in Virginia, we sent you all that could be spared!"

"It was not enough! You and your fellow delegates sat in Philadelphia dithering and wringing your hands, and _I_ watched my men die by the hundreds!" he snarls and his eyes flick to the scepter on an ornate stand next to the throne. "I saw an opportunity and I took it! My decision saved thousands of lives, perhaps _tens_ of thousands!"

"Please, George, we just..." Jefferson's words trail off when he sees Haytham lead past.

Haytham shuffles meekly forward, his head bowed._ Don't look him in the eyes, never in the eyes_. When Haytham and his escort mount the dais, Washington's hand comes up to halt them. Haytham can feel the eyes rove over him, cold and analytical, and Haytham stares determinedly at the ground beneath his bare feet, limbs shaking, teetering on a knife edge between boiling rage and absolute terror. And then, unexpectedly, the moment passes without incident. Washington's eyes flick back to his audience and he waves a hand to Haytham's guard. A hand grips Haytham's shoulder, guides him to his place at the right hand of the throne, and forces him down to his knees, facing the room. The guard snaps the end of his chain to the arm of the ornate throne with a padlock.

"Haytham Kenway?" a different voice asks, bewildered. Haytham wants to turn his head, acknowledge that, yes, he's alive, that beneath his tattered clothes, the collar about his neck and the layer of grime coating his skin that he's still a man, not an animal. But he doesn't dare. He can't stop his eyes from flickering to the man, though. The man is another delegate, somewhat stout, a head shorter than Jefferson and undistinguished-looking but for his sharp eyes and arched brows. The man stares at him, open mouthed. Confusion, anger, pity and grief battle across his careworn face.

"You rotten bastard, what in the hell have you done?" the man demands, face reddened, and Haytham recognizes him, finally: John Adams. Damn him.

Haytham had ridden to Philadelphia seeking assistance from the Continental Congress, warned them of the clear danger that Washington represented, and Adams had shouted him down. The lawyer had berated him like a child in front of an audience of some of the most accomplished and wealthy men in America and had named him a traitor for daring to suggest that General Washington was anything other than a capable commander and a dedicated patriot. Haytham had fled the city in disgrace, only narrowly escaping an angry mob with murder on their minds.

So Haytham can't help but feel a little pleased when an officer lurches forward and backhands Adams across the face, sending him spinning to the floor in a most undignified heap.

"You'll keep a civil tongue in that mouth or I'll cut it out meself," the man snarls and Haytham feels that thrill of pleasure turn to ashes in his mouth.

Thomas Hickey. He hadn't seen him since the incident in the wilderness, when Haytham and his men along with Ziio and her people had tried to take the Apple in a surprise attack. The results had been disastrous. In the chaos that ensued, Haytham had lost sight of both Thomas and Charles. When Thomas failed to reappear, Haytham had assumed with a heavy heart that the man had been killed. He'd gone back to look for him, found a few men of a similar build, but by that point the wolves and scavengers had been at the bodies and it had been impossible to distinguish one man from the other.

But Thomas is far from dead; he looks fine. Better than fine; actually, he looks _immaculate_—a word that Haytham had never in both of his strange, disordered lives thought he would associate with the man. Gone are the perpetually rumpled clothes, the five o'clock shadow, the busted capillaries across his cheeks and nose, all evidence of his hard drinking and fast living. He's clean shaven and his hair is expertly groomed, his clothing well-tailored and cleaned. His boots are so polished that Haytham can see his own reflection in them, if he squints. He looks every inch the perfect officer. If he hadn't stepped out to assault Adams, Haytham was likely to have never noticed him at all.

Adams staggers to his feet, cursing, and Jefferson shakes his head. "George, we came in _peace—_"

"Load o' bullocks," Thomas announces and jerks his head at Adams, who spits blood into the carpet, where it is all but swallowed by the red wool underfoot. "Found this one's kin doing 'is best to stir up trouble down at the 'arbor."

"Sam!" Adams gasps, "What have you done to him?" But Thomas only laughs and settles his hands on the butts of the twin pistols at his hips.

"The same fate that will befall you, if you continue to test me, Mr. Adams," Washington answers testily. Whatever patience General Washington had possessed, it was greatly diminished the instant he obtained the Apple.

"And my wife? Where is she? What have you done with her?" Adams barks heedlessly, unable to see murder mere inches away.

"Abigail? Why, she's fine. Perfectly content. She tells me she's never been happier," says Washington, settling himself in his throne, his posture stiff and agitated.

Adams goes pale. Jefferson begins, "George—"

"The words that you are searching for, sir, are 'Your Majesty.' If that strikes you too formal, you may name me 'Sire.'"

Jefferson glares at him. His face betrays his feelings, but his voice is still steady and even, his speech deliberately slow and careful. "The war is over, sire. We... _You_ have won. It's done. Do you not think it time to retire to Virginia? Martha begs you to return to her."

"What use have I for a half-built manor and some other man's widow when I have all of New England at my feet? Furthermore, it seems you are wrong, concerning the war's end."

"I don't understand. The British have been repelled," says Jefferson, shaking his head. "It's over. America is free to do as she pleases."

"But she is not united. Was that not also our goal? And what of the ten thousand French troops quartered in Philadelphia and their armada lurking just out of mortar range in New York?"

"Ah, well, the French are confused," says Adams, mockingly blithesome, "You see, Congress sent the French an envoy to press for help in our fight against King George. Well, they got very excited and were very eager to see this new nation and to fight their old enemy—so just try to imagine their surprise and dismay when they arrived and found that there was _another_ King George on this side of the Atlantic that's as tyrannical as he is _insane_—"

He's cut off when Thomas delivers a hard punch to the guts. Adams doubles over, wheezing.

"Mr Adams, not another word or I will make you wish you had been born a mute," says Washington.

Jefferson goes to help his fellow delegate, trying to help him stand upright. When he looks back at Washington, his face is alight in cold fury.

"The... whatever it is—The others are right; It has driven you mad."

"On the contrary; I have never felt more sane."

"I've had enough of this farce. We're leaving. Now," he says, his voice not quite a shout.

"Are you? I do not recall giving my leave for you to depart," Washington growls.

"I do not need it. I am my own man, sir. This meeting is over. You will order General Lee to stand down and withdraw your troops from Pennsylvania."

Haytham resists a shudder. General Lee. Charles. The man who had doted on Haytham's every whim and command had become Washington's most trusted and capable general.

"I think not; I see a different outcome. You and your fellow delegates will surrender Philadelphia as well as Pennsylvania, following the expulsion of the French from _my_ soil."

Jefferson's face is grim and pale. "We have seventeen thousand seasoned, rested, experienced men ready to march on New York."

Haytham can't see Washington's face, not from this angle, but the hand on the right arm of the throne tightens into a fist.

"You would send good men and patriots against their rightful king?"

"They are Americans! They fought a long and bloody war to rid themselves of a king, they will not willingly submit themselves to another!"

"They _need_ me!" shouts Washington, slamming a fist into the arm of his throne. "I've seen your so-called Congress, sir, and I am not impressed! You fight and squabble like fishwives over petty differences, accomplishing nothing! America will not survive without a king! She'll be ripped apart by petty grievances and be an easy target for foreign powers!"

"Yes, we _do_ need a strong leader, but the last thing America needs is a tyrant!"

"The sixty thousand Bostonians and New Yorkers ready to fight to the death to defend their king are quite pleased with my rule."

Sixty thousand? No. It wasn't possible. The Apple wasn't that powerful... was it? Surely he's exaggerating.

"Yes, and four—forty thou-thousand of them are... are starving women, sick children and old men!" Adams wheezes, having regained just enough wind to sentence his fate. "You cannot hope to defeat us!"

"You have only solders. I have... something more." He caresses the handle of his scepter gently, lovingly. "Would you care for a demonstration?"

He lifts the scepter lazily. The Apple. The Piece of Eden. He had looked for it for half of _both_ his lives and now here it was, so tantalizingly close, just at arm's length. But it may as well been a thousand miles away, sunk in a bottomless ocean, for all the good it would do Haytham now.

It's like there's a cyclone in the room. Energy snaps in the air, raises the hair on the backs of his arms against his shirt sleeves, and the room goes dark—it's still sunny outside, but the light is so diminished that it may as well be midnight, and the tapers in their sconces give off nothing but the faintest pinpricks of light, like lanterns on a ship far out to sea. The Apple; it's stealing all the light in the world, casting it in upon itself until it glows like a tiny sun. It casts strange patterns on the walls and on the faces in the room.

Adams jerks, gives a cut-off scream, his entire body going ridged and trembling, as if he were struck by lightning, eyes rolling in terror. For an instant, Haytham can see the shine of the Apple reflected in his eyes, almost as if they themselves were glowing—and then he blinks. Adams' expression is mild and relaxed, almost vaguely amused. Jefferson's face is a stark contrast: it is the very picture of horror. Jefferson steps backwards towards the other cowering delegates.

"Mr Adams, how are you feeling?" asks Washington.

"Wonderful," he says breathlessly, face rapturous. "I... I can't recall ever feeling so... so..."

"At peace?"

"Yes," he hisses.

"Mr. Adams, do you wish to please me?" Washington asks.

Oh dear God, he wasn't going to make Adams—he wasn't going to use him like he used Haytham, was he? For as much as Adams had infuriated him, he didn't wish that fate on anyone.

"More than anything, Your Grace," is Adams' emphatic response.

"Very good," says Washington. He nods to Thomas. "Captain Hickey, lend Mr Adams your knife."

Thomas unsheathes a squat dagger from his belt and hands it to Adams, hilt first. Adams takes it without hesitation.

"Mr Adams," says Washington, "I've found you rather boorish, as of late."

"Please, Your Grace, I never meant offense," Adams says with utmost sincerity. "What can I do to make amends?"

"I don't think anything would please me more than to have you cut out that offending tongue."

Adams tilts back his head and opens his mouth as wide as it will stretch, and Haytham knows what is coming, what he means to do even before the man pinches his tongue between thumb and forefingers. Haytham looks away, down at the flagstones, but not before he sees Adams lift the knife to his own face, and he hears the click of steel against teeth as the blade is maneuvered awkwardly into place.

Jefferson screams,_"NO!"_ but he's immobilized, seemingly rooted to the spot, and Haytham is going to be sick, he just knows it, can feel the bile burning his throat at the sound of a sharp blade slicing through meat, accompanied by a sloppy gurgling sound—Adams swallowing his own blood so that he does not choke.

"Oh, very good!" says Washington, pounding a fist on the arm of his chair in approval. Haytham starts at the noise, looks up to see Adams grinning with red teeth, bright blood gushing in a torrent down his chin and staining his cravat. "If you will return the Captain's knife, please."

The man dutifully wipes the blade on the tail of his coat and hands it back to Thomas who accepts with a cordial nod.

"You see, I don't need soldiers; I have subjects. Sixty thousand souls who will do anything—and I do mean _anything_—to further my ends."

"Dear God," someone, perhaps Jefferson, moans.

"Gentlemen, I now give you my leave to go."

Washington lowers the scepter. The light is returned to the world. It is only then that Adams begins to scream.


	8. Chapter 7

Insane. Bloody _insane_.

Haytham supposes that he knew something like that would happen, that he'd be witness to some new and gruesome shade of brutality, but it hadn't made Adams' mutilation any less terrifying to behold.

Had he made an involuntary face? Made a noise? The drugged and complacent whore would probably not have looked on the scene with anything more than mild dismay, but Haytham isn't that good of an actor. He doubts anyone is. He feels sick, panic gnawing at his chest and he jams his hands between his knees to keep them from shaking. Adams makes low guttural noises that may have once been speech but now just dissolve into inarticulate, animal howls of rage and pain, echoing off the walls.

Jefferson takes Adams under the arm and hustles him out. The other delegates have already fled, made a run for the doors before Washington inspired more mutilations. Haytham wonders if Adams will live to see Philadelphia.

His mind spins around the figure Washington had so casually bandied about: Sixty thousand. He was certain the remaining Philadelphia regiments and French troops were well trained and armed, but what would they do against men that were compelled to keep fighting unto death? Could they bring themselves to kill women bearing muskets? Children wielding knives and axes? And still, the larger question; how was that sort of power even possible? He'd studied accounts of Precursor technologies extensively, the Pieces of Eden in particular, but no where had he ever heard of anything capable of directly controlling more than a few hundred at a time. Washington was bluffing. He had to be. At least, that's Haytham's fervent wish.

Washington sighs, shifts in his seat, leans an elbow on the throne and rests his forehead in his hand, tense.

"Fools. Utter fools," he growls, "How dare they? What do they even hope to accomplish by defying me?"

"Highness?" asks Thomas.

"Yes, Captain Hickey?" is Washington's weary acknowledgment.

"You want we should put a tail on 'em?"

"I doubt that will be necessary. It's an eight day ride to Philadelphia; we'll know their response soon enough."

He calls out to his servants, to the other soldiers. He barks out commands. Ride into the country and collect all the horses that can be mustered, be they thoroughbreds, plow horses or ponies. Kill as many bears and wolves as they could find; they would dress as Russians if need be for a winter campaign. Have construction halted on his palace; they would need every laborer for the war effort.

Haytham is barely listening, though. He's staring at the last five inches of Adams' tongue on the carpet before the throne. He wonders if Washington specifiably chose red for the carpet in order to better hide the blood. Finally, one of the servants reaches down, covers the bit of human meat in a square of cloth, and takes it away with an offended grimace.

Haytham feels a hand brush against his neck, near the collar, and shivers. The fingers leave a burning trail in their wake thanks to the aphrodisiac that's been reintroduced into his system, but He can't feel the lick of pleasure over the revulsion and fear that churn his guts. Damn. Haytham was hoping that he would be forgotten in all the confusion, but fate was not on his side today.

"Collect as many natives as can be found in the frontier, they can be compelled to serve as cannon fodder if need be. No sense in letting good Christians be killed in the first volley."

"Aye, Highness."

Good thing Connor isn't present; no doubt he'd get himself killed upon hearing that. Haytham wonders where his son is. When they marched Haytham into the throne room, the guards had dragged the boy further down the hall.

All thoughts of Connor evaporate when Washington coils Haytham's chain around his fingers and jerks it slightly. Not an attempt to choke him, then, but a command. Wincing, he crawls on hands and knees to the front of the throne.

Washington reaches out and caresses Haytham's stubble-rough jaw, suspiciously, creepily gentle. He can see the tension in the muscles of the man's hand.

"Are you well?" Washington asks, all false concern.

No. He most assuredly is not. He feels nauseous, especially after witnessing Adams' mutilation, still feels weak, lightheaded, and regrettably lucid after being subjected to Connor's 'help.' He nods anyway, though.

"Did you enjoy your little reprieve?" Haytham doesn't know what to do—does he nod 'yes?' Shake his head 'no?' He doesn't know which Washington wants, so he just crimps his lips and stares at Washington's chest. Powerful fingers grip his chin, force his gaze back upwards. He settles his gaze at Washington's mouth, not daring to look him in the eyes. He wills his face to be as blank and his eyes as vapid as possible.

"I asked you a question, pet," he says, that dangerous bite of steel lurking beneath his mild tone. He grips Haytham's chin tighter. "Did you miss me?"

Haytham nods, guessing that was what Washington wanted. He guessed correctly, apparently, because the self-made king grins and runs his fingers along Haytham's neck, rubs the back of his spine and Haytham feels a weak tingle that might be pleasure beneath his mounting unease.

"Truly? Well, then, perhaps you would like to show me how much?"

It's said as a question, but Haytham knows a command when he hears it. He tries to swallow his anxieties but his throat feels like it's lined with sawdust. He hesitates. This was so much easier when he hadn't the slightest clue what was going on, when he couldn't even remember his own _name_, much less the abuses that he'd been subjected to the day before.

Connor. Damn him, how was he supposed to be able to do this? Interfering bastard...

He doesn't want to know what the consequences will be if—no, _when_ Washington finds out Haytham isn't the docile, dumb play thing he once was. He has to do it, though, has to make it convincing or they'll realize what Connor has done. He doesn't know why he gives a damn about what happens to the fool boy. Obviously, Connor doesn't exactly hold Haytham in the highest regard, judging from the way the boy stabbed him in the neck in their previous lives. Haytham shouldn't care less what happens to him, but... there's something between them, something that snide comments, hateful words, spilled blood and an all-out war hadn't been able to completely annihilate.

For a moment, Haytham wants to laugh. He must be going insane himself. It's just that the world has become so absurd, so twisted, that his life and the life of his son depend on how well Haytham preforms between Washington's legs.

Speaking of which.

He shuffles forward as Washington sits back and lets his knees fall wide apart. Haytham undoes the front of the man's breeches, his fingers feeling stiff and clumsy. Washington isn't wearing any small clothes. Haytham can't help but dumbly stare at his cock. For a brief moment he panics, mind racing, but if Washington notices he doesn't react. The king reaches down and gives himself a few quick pumps, and it's still only at half mast, but Haytham can tell that it's of an impressive width and length, not unlike the rest of the man.

"Well?" Washington prompts, traces the head of it along Haytham's lips. He can't afford to be reluctant; he has to play the part of the obedient, wanton little whore. Nothing he hasn't done before, apparently. Cursing himself, he leans forward and takes the head into his mouth. Washington sighs appreciatively, bucking his hips.

He doesn't know what to do. He had hoped that some part of him would remember how the act is done, what Washington prefers, but everything is so hazy from the time before, so he thinks further back, tries to remember what he himself had enjoyed, but he can't concentrate hard enough to recall those times either. He remembers to sheath his lips over his teeth, at least, and goes down as far as is comfortable, lapping at the thick shaft as he goes. He bobs his head up and down, trying to take in as much as he can, but when the head touches the back of his throat he recoils. He tries not to think of how much of a whore this makes him. It's one thing to be forced into doing this filthy act, quite another to be a willing—if coerced—participant. He tries to make his mind as blank as his face, to retreat further into himself, to make it as if this is happening to some unfortunate stranger.

Washington sighs. It's not the sigh of someone deeply contented and in the throws of passion—it's disappointed, agitated, the sound one might make while waiting for a carriage that's late. Haytham looks up at him discretely though his lashes. And against all common sense, all reason, and despite the fear that constricts his chest and threatens to strangle him, Haytham feels—well, weirdly indignant, because Washington looks apathetic—_bored, _even_. _More bored than anyone with their cock in someone's mouth had any right to look.

_That_, Haytham thinks, _is a very bad sign_.

He thinks back to what Church had said that morning, about how Haytham had "ceased to be amusing" and how he doubted that he would need to see to the king's pet much longer. Were they going to replace him with someone else? He didn't want to know what happened to Washington's cast offs.

He tries to redouble his efforts, to make up for his evident lack of finesse with faked enthusiasm, but it's apparently not enough. The man grabs Haytham by the hair and pulls him back. Haytham lets the flesh slide from his mouth. A strand of saliva and precome connect his lips to the head of Washington's cock. The fist clenches and Haytham's face is forced upwards. For the briefest of moments, their eyes meet. Washington stares at him, frowning, brow furrowed, and Haytham can feel the panic rise in his throat and set his heart to pounding—_he knows, good God, he knows everything_—but the man says nothing and Haytham forces his face to be as inscrutable as stone.

"Captain Hickey," Washington says, and Thomas emerges from behind the throne.

"Y'Highness?"

"You did very well today. Would you like a little reward for your service?" asks Washington.

Oh, no, Thomas would never... But the eyes that rake over Haytham are hungry and malicious. Haytham had never in his life anticipated being on the receiving end of his Brother's lascivious smile; it makes his skin crawl.

"I think tha'd be right generous of you," he replies and ambles forward with a swagger.

Washington smiles in a way that makes Haytham even more uneasy. He pushes Haytham's head back down. Haytham takes the hint and reluctantly resumes. Haytham flinches when Thomas yanks down his pants down around knees, exposing him to the chill of the air and the scrutiny of the entire room.

"Not bad, for an old bloke," he chuckles, and Haytham can feel the panic starting to bubble inside him. It's Thomas _Hickey_, for God's sake. He would never... he preferred _women_, exclusively. Thomas may not have been especially discerning about the quality of the wenches he would take to bed, but it was always women. But it's not Thomas anymore, not really, Haytham has to remind himself. It's a highly dexterous marionette; Washington using Thomas' body as yet another object of abuse, as effective and hurtful as any whip or thumbscrew. It's really Washington's burning touch that skims possessively from the small of Haytham's back to his ass cheek, Washington's hand that gives his skin a ringing slap, Washington's dark chuckle when Haytham flinches.

_Nothing I haven't done before. Nothing I haven't..._

He hears Thomas spit into his hand, presumably to slick himself, then wet fingers slide along the cleft of Haytham's spread cheeks, making him shiver. Thomas gives his entrance only the most cursory of attention, almost as an afterthought. Then, Haytham feels something blunt and hot and far, far thicker than fingers press against his hole.

_He can't mean to... Oh, no. No no no that wasn't nearly enough preparation he couldn't—_

When Thomas' cock presses forward he feels the burn of skin against skin. He pushes and pushes, slow but unfaltering, relentless, sinking himself deeper by fractions of inches. The aphrodisiac isn't enough to mask the pain of it, not even close, and he wants to bite and scream, kick and punch out, but he can't, has to settle for clenching his fists in the fabric of Washington's breeches and moaning pleadingly around the flesh in his mouth.

He can't pretend to enjoy this. It's not possible. But Haytham's pleasure had never been the point, had it? Thomas sinks to the hilt with a grunt, his coarse hair ticking Haytham's overly sensitive flesh. Thomas pulls up Haytham's shirt and runs his hands over his scarred, quivering back, like he's trying to gentle a skittish horse. So this is what it's come to; on his knees, in public, one man in his mouth, the other in his ass, taken like a whore—no, worse, like an animal. Hickey pulls back, and part of Haytham feels like he's being pulled back along with him and he stifles a whimper at the friction.

"Always thought 'e was a tight-arse," Hickey chuckles darkly. "Won't be, time I'm done wit' 'im."

The hands settle on his hips, thumbs caressing the sharp ridge of bone for an instant, and then Thomas grips him hard enough to bruise, and mercilessly impales him.

He gasps around the cock in his mouth, thrashes, but Washington grabs a fistful of his hair, keeping him in place.

"Mind those teeth," he growls, "or I'll take them from you one by one."

He tries to scrabble forward, to escape the severity of Hickey's thrusts, only to have Washington's cock strike his tonsils, making him choke and sputter, eyes welling with tears. Washington's fingers knot in his hair and force his head up and down on the length of his cock.

"You like that, 'Atham?" Hickey hisses. "How's it feel to be the one gettin' fucked for once?"

Hickey's thrusts are agonizing. It's not the most pain he's ever endured before, but _God_, every push feels like the man is rubbing sand into an open wound. He's trapped between the two men, rocked back and forth between them, Hickey setting a brutal pace that Washington mirrors exactly.

"Always looked down on me and mine, didn't'cha?" he continues, "Walked around like your shit didn' stink. Treated us like we was scum. Well who's the scum now?"

It's not Thomas. It's _not_. They were never close enough to be friends, certainly, but Thomas had been loyal, one of the most effective tools in Haytham's arsenal, and Haytham had always given him credit where credit was due, always compensated him generously. He'd never misused him, treated him badly... had he?

"Whas that word you bandied about? Ah. _Expendable_." He rests his weight on Haytham's back, the cold buttons and buckles of his uniform digging into his skin. He feels Hickey's hot breath against the shell of his ear. "You left me an' Charlie in the woods to die. Was worried more about that savage slut o' yours then your own _Brothers_."

_No_, he wants to tell him, _it's not true, I tried_—but he knows better than to try to respond. Hickey's mouth goes to where Haytham's neck meets his shoulder, near his iron collar, tongue lathing at his racing pulse.

"You brought this upon yourself, you know," Washington says, a touch breathlessly. "If you were not so damnably willful and stubborn..."

Hickey then bites down, hard, sucking, _gnawing_ at his flesh until the skin splits, and Haytham shudders, repressing the urge to scream.

"I wouldn't have to do this, if you would just let me in..."

And despite it all, Haytham wants to laugh—let him in? Good God, Haytham can feel the man's cock nudging his tonsils; how much further in did he expect to get? Washington's hand yanks at his hair, forcing him to arch his back, spit-slick cock sliding from Haytham's mouth.

"Do you want me to make him stop?" Washington growls just as Hickey punctuates with a particularly sharp thrust that shoots pain all the way up his spine and wrenches a cry from Haytham's throat.

"Yes!" Haytham gasps, unable to help himself.

"Look at me," he commands. Haytham does so, bright blue meeting dark, stormy gray. Washington's eyes are glazed with lust. "Will you let me inside?"

"Yes!" he pleads again on reflex, mind whirling—Washington could have gotten him to agree to anything at that point, it just seems like the right thing to say in the moment. He doesn't even know what he's agreed to do, but he's beyond caring either way. He just wants it to end. Almost anything is better than this.

Almost.

What he forgets is that there are things far worse. Washington is quick to remind him of it. The king reaches for his scepter and Haytham immediately regrets saying anything at all.

Suddenly his head is invaded by burning, scathing gold, bright and merciless. The world is gone, burnt away to Haytham, Washington, and the Apple. It's pain beyond reasoning, beyond words, more excruciating than anything he's ever felt before. He can't even feel Hickey anymore—whatever rude punishment he's inflicting is nothing compared to this, to Washington thrusting himself against him, battering at him with his power, assaulting him, stabbing him behind his eyes and twisting until the knives scrape bone. Washington boils Haytham's brain inside his own skull, burns down his spine, rips him with claws of fire that threaten to rend him into a million pieces.

Below all the pain, Haytham feels something else, something freezing that oozes into all those fresh cracks in his armor, makes him tremble with a queer sort of mixture of disgust and pleasure, caresses a familiar, icy finger against his startled and horrified mind. It prods and winkles, tries to gain access to something that Haytham wants desperately to keep hidden away.

_No no no PLEASE—_He screams but he's trapped, paralyzed, Washington encompassing him in a cage made of pain, crushing him under an impossible weight, moaning at Haytham's distress and lapping up his terror with tongues of knives. He can't think, can't breathe, rendered utterly helpless. This is worse than what Hickey is surely still doing to him, so much more intimately violating. It isn't about pleasure, pain, humiliation—this is Washington wanting to destroy him from the inside out.

"_Just relax, pet," _Washington croons, but Haytham doesn't hear it with his ears, he hears him in his mind and it's not just Washington but hundreds, _thousands_ of voices, screaming, laughing, muttering, shouting, all at the same volume, loud enough that he must be bleeding from the ears, and if it doesn't cease he's going to be driven mad—

"_You don't have to fight me, Haytham. There's nothing left to fight for. Just let it happen. Just let me in."_

He feels that cold thing insist, promising instant relief, strokes him as gently and soothingly as a mother. It can all stop, right now, he can go back to being a mindless, pliant drone, like before Connor found him. Better, because he won't be all alone, he'll be one with all of the others he can hear, be useful, be part of something larger than himself. The pain, the humiliation, the constant violation will stop, it will be as if it had never happened. He can have everything he ever wanted, he won't have to think, or feel, or remember anything ever again.

And he wants it, doesn't he? It would be so easy to give in. He wants it all to stop, needs to, but...

But the _boy_.

No. He _can't_. He'd already walked away from his blood more times than he could count. He couldn't do it again. Not to Ziio's son.

"_Let me in," _Washington insists.

No.

At once Haytham feels the cold power recoil, as if it has come against some sort of barrier, feels Washington scream with a rage that grinds glass into his spine, threatens to split his head apart at the fissures.

"_Let me in, Haytham!" _the legion of voices growl and hiss and scream.

And then something _does_ break, and all at once Haytham is filled with something else, something that he clutches to himself that's as familiar and comfortable as his old cloak. Haytham's rage drowns out the terror, blocks out the voices, turns the pain back on itself. Haytham stabs out in all directions, howling—

Get out. GET OUT.

Haytham's back on his knees in the throne room—no, is _still_ on his knees, because that's where he's been the entire time, and Hickey's thrusts have grown erratic, breathing labored, and the thighs beneath Haytham's hands are trembling, hard as stone beneath the fine linen. Washington's hand is before his face, cock in his rapidly-pumping fist, and Haytham cries out when the burst of cum strikes his cheek, Washington grunting in answer above him.

Haytham's still disoriented by the attack, limbs trembling and chest heaving for air, amazed that there's anything left for the two men to abuse, because the echos of what Washington did still rankle in his mind, tell him that his flesh should have sloughed off his bones like over cooked meat, that he should be bleeding from a thousand cuts, dead on the floor with his brain boiled out of his ears, but Haytham is still alive and whole. Sort of.

Hickey pounds at him, fingernails leaving crescents of blood where he grips Haytham's hips, and it hurts, of course it does, but the pain seems a trifling thing compared to what was just inflicted upon him. Hickey curses and sinks himself hilt-deep. Haytham's guts churn in disgust as he feels his former associate let go.

"It is very unwise," Washington says, voice low and dangerous, "to promise what you cannot deliver, pet."

Haytham glances up to see Washington's cold fury. His heart pounds in his chest.

"Captain Hickey."

Hickey pulls out. Haytham feels his former Brother's seed ooze down his thigh.

"Highness?" asks Hickey, a touch winded.

"Fetch me my riding crop."

* * *

A/N: Oh! Hello! So you've gotten this far, huh? Maybe you'd like to drop me a note and tell me how I'm doing? I'm a sucker for reviews.


	9. Chapter 8

"Haytham?"

There's someone touching him, shaking his shoulder. _Go away_, he wants to protest, but he can't get his throat to make the words.

"Father?" this is soft, barely a whisper in his ear, pleading.

He's curled up on the floor on his side. His throat feels raw. His knees. His back. His... well. His everything, really. Muscles strained and wrenched to the point of uselessness, the skin of his back broken in so many places that the whole of it is on fire beneath his shirt. He is the very definition of wretched.

He cracks one weary eye open. Connor. His son. His... liability. He's kneeling at Haytham's side. The boy's eyes are tense, his face brittle and hard, shoulders drawn bow-string tight. Is he paler than before? Hard to tell, in this dim light.

"It is time for you to eat," he says, his voice carefully even. He has Haytham's standard calculatedly grim meal with him.

They're in their cell. It's dark. He doesn't remember how he got there. At some point during his beating his body and mind must have decided that he had had enough, and had shut him down to spare him further agony. Haytham looks past Connor; there's the silhouette of a guard standing on the other side of the bars, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

He's not hungry. Food is the absolute last thing on his mind. He wants to lie on the ground and melt into the floor, never moving again. As always, though, people have other plans for him. Haytham gets an arm underneath himself and tries to push himself up, but his trembling limbs won't cooperate.

"Here, let me help."

Connor sets down the tray of food. He grasps Haytham under the arm to pull him upright. He puts a hand on Haytham's back to steady him, but Haytham flinches away with a strangled cry. Connor releases him as though burned, holds his hand out to the light to see that the palm is wet with the blood that's seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. Connor curses in Mohawk, turns his face to the guard.

"He needs bandages."

"Ain't you heard, half-breed? There's a war goin' on. None to spare on the likes of him—"

"He also needs alcohol."

"Ha! Don't we all?"

"He is bleeding! His wounds need to be cleaned!" Connor barks impatiently.

"His Highness' bitch _needs_ to be eatin' his dinner. Doctor's orders."

They know. They know he hasn't been eating the herbs—No, he corrects himself, they _suspect_. If they knew for a certainty that he was off his diet, they would have separated Haytham and Connor (and perhaps separated Connor's head from his neck) and then forced the stuff down his throat. Washington would have never allowed Haytham anywhere near his... his person if he had known for a certainty that Haytham was lucid. It does mean, however, that if this ruse is to continue, Haytham is going to have to be far more convincing. Which means he's going to have to keep letting... He shudders. _God, _he can't do this...

"Do you think your king will care what the man ate after he has dropped dead of corruption?"

The guard laughs, tries to make it sound dismissive but there's an edge of nervousness to it. "He dies, then it'll be your head on a pike decoratin' the armory."

"If there is space for one head, there will be space for two."

The guard doesn't have a retort for that. He shifts from foot to foot. "He eats. Then I'll see what I can do about the rest."

"Very well," says Connor grudgingly. "Eat, Haytham." He picks up the tray, holding it out for Haytham's perusal. The boy gives the witch-doctor's greens a significant look.

Haytham takes a hand full with trembling fingers and puts it in his mouth. Chews. Tastes bitter, pungent. Swallows. Grimaces at the pain in his throat. The two other men watch him in tense silence as he finishes the herbs and starts in on the gray sludge that is probably meant to be stew.

Apparently the guard is satisfied, because he stalks off down the hall, muttering. Connor waits until the footsteps die away and then grabs the waste bucket, sets it in front of Haytham.

"Get rid of it."

He's not sure he wants to, thinks perhaps he would be better off drugged, insensate and oblivious the next time Washington... but the look on Connor's face is hard, lips compressed into a thin line. There is an intensity in the boy's eyes that's disturbing, the threat implicit—do as he says, or he'll do it himself. So, Haytham sticks what's left of his fingers down his throat and brings the greens back up. He hopes that whomever is forced to clean up after them doesn't examine the contents of the bucket too carefully.

"I could hear you, earlier," Connor says quietly as Haytham wipes bile from his lips with the back of his fist. Half of Boston probably heard him, if the rawness of his throat is any indication. "It sounded like you were being slaughtered. I thought... I did not expect to see you again."

"Used the Apple," Haytham croaks, throat burning, before taking the aphrodisiac-laced tea, hoping to wash down the disgusting taste in his mouth. He half expected Connor to give him that familiarly irritating look of befuddlement, but the boy stares at him levelly.

"You resisted him." Well, _yes_, of course he did. Otherwise this conversation would be even more one sided. "Why? What made you say no?"

Haytham doesn't answer. He doesn't quite know himself. He shifts, wincing at the pain that shoots up his backside. The boy is damnably persistent, though. Connor's eyes glitter in the torchlight.

"This morning, you were ready to to die, you said there was no hope. Why did you not give in, then?"

_Because of you,_ he should say._ Because I couldn't abandon you. Again._

"Because I'm a goddamned fool," he says instead, voice cracking.

They hear boots, more than one pair. Connor gets to his feet. Haytham does his best to eat as quickly as possible, but trying to consume the hard, flaky bread feels like he's swallowing knives. The guard appears in short order, accompanied by two others.

"I found some blankets. Old, but they're clean," the original guard says, gruff. He quickly pushes the bundle of rags through the bars and yanks his hand back as quickly as he can, just in case Connor has a mind to seize him through the bars.

Unexpectedly, he then pulls a pistol from his belt; Connor draws back, wary. One of the other men brandishes his musket, the hallway just wide enough front to back for him to aim without leaning on the opposite wall.

"Back of the cell, face against the wall. You try anything smart, you and your friend's gonna have more than a few cuts and a sore arse to worry about," he growls. "Hands up."

Connor is slow to comply. Haytham can see the wheels turning in his head; Connor's wondering if he's fast enough to wrench one of the guns away if one of the men gets too close. He does as he's told, though, watching the guard over his shoulder. Haytham doesn't fail to notice that the men are not watching him at all, obviously not anticipating any trouble from the man sitting on the floor. And why would they? He's not Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway; he's just some sad, broken thing that eats and shits and bends over for anyone that cares to take him. A danger to no one.

The third man, the youngest of the three, hastily unlocks the barred door. It swings forward into the cell about a foot and a half. He drops a steaming wooden bucket with a rope handle, tips it a little in his haste, splashing water on the floor. It's followed shortly by another gourd cup, this one larger than the one that had contained Haytham's tea. He slams the door, rams the lock home and backs away as quick as he can. Connor turns, staring at the items.

"That's strong whiskey, monkey. You drink any of it, you'll regret it," the first guard growls.

"I..." Connor hesitates, Haytham can see him struggle between lashing out at the man for the racial slur, or praising him for the favor. He decides on the latter. "Thank you. This will—"

"Just make sure he don't die," the guard snaps and he and his companions depart.

Haytham reaches for the whiskey—he wishes there was a barrel of it and not this meager cup, wishes there was enough to drown in—but Connor is faster, stepping between his father and the alcohol.

"We need to take off your shirt."

Rather than trusting him to do it, Connor steps in and pulls at the fabric. Haytham gasps. Some of the cuts have dried to the shirt. When Connor gingerly pulls the shirt over Haytham's head, it feels like he's taking most of his skin with it.

He watches Connor's eyes, assessing the boy as he evaluates Haytham. He looks troubled, but not horrified. Just your standard, run-of-the-mill flogging, then. Connor's eyes linger on the savage bite near his iron collar and the boy flushes, although with anger or embarrassment, Haytham cannot quite discern. Connor tells him to go to the pallet. Haytham doesn't even bother to try to stand up. He crawls the short distance and then flops down on his stomach with a groan. Connor follows him with the bucket, rags, and alcohol.

Connor's not the worst doctor he's ever had. For all his prodigious strength, Haytham's surprised that his son's touch is so gentle. He opts to carefully soak the blood and dirt from Haytham's back, rather than scrub. It still hurts. No amount of codling will prevent that, but the pain could be worse. His son dabs the wounds with the alcohol and Haytham does his best not to flinch. After the wounds are sterilized, his son tears the old blankets into long gray strips and lays them delicately over the cuts. Connor says he'll have to wrap him in more bandages to hold them in place when he's done.

"I have a doctor acquaintance," he says as if reading his father's mind. "He taught me how to treat wounds. Whiskey is not what I would have picked, but it will serve."

Haytham should be grateful. Grateful that Connor cares enough about him that he's willing to speak out on his behalf, grateful that he's taking such care with his father's body. After everything they've been though, Haytham should be appreciative that the boy even cares whether he lives or dies. He's not, though. The boy's touch just further reminds him how completely and utterly helpless he is, at the mercy of everyone around him. Even though there's nothing even remotely sexual about it, the boy's touch reminds him of Washington, of Hickey, about what they had done to him and why it had made the boy's attentiveness necessary. His skin crawls. Even though the water that cleanses his body is warm and soothing, he shudders all the same.

As Connor works his way down, Haytham's anxiety increases. The boy's hands falter at his father's lower back. The bruises at his hips are a livid purple against his pale skin, dark enough to make out the marks of individual fingers.

His son's voice is hesitant, soft. "Do you need me to clean... down there, again?"

God. Oh, _God_. The first part of that phrase is awful enough, but it's that small word at the end that disturbs him the most. 'Again.' Meaning, this is not the first time Connor's cleaned him up. He buries his face in the stinking mattress, mortified. His throat constricts, eyes and nose feeling hot. He will not weep. He will _not_. It's bad enough that the boy has seen what Washington does to him, witnessed it first hand, even worse that he's become accustomed to tending to him, afterward. At least he will spare himself the embarrassment and shame of the boy seeing him cry.

"No," he croaks into the mattress.

Connor has him sit up. He kneels in front of Haytham, taking longer strips of fabric and winding them around his father's body in silence. He hates Washington. Hates Hickey. Church. Lee. Most of all, he hates himself. Hates his weakness, his inability to do anything other than let himself be violated over and over. He's not even human anymore. Just a thing. An object of pity. He wants to sleep, perhaps have a few hours of respite where he dreams of something pleasant—or better, dreams of nothing at all.

But the boy just won't leave him alone.

"We need to come up with a plan," he says as he finishes wrapping Haytham up.

Haytham goes to run unsteady fingers through his hair, stops when he comes across something crusted. He pulls it out of the strands, examines it, and feels like throwing up—of his own volition, this time. Haytham gives Connor a ragged sigh. He can't meet his eyes.

"Not now, Connor. It's not a good time," he says hoarsely.

"There is _never going to be_ a good time," Connor grouses.

"I said, 'not now!'" It comes out as a harsh bark. Connor starts, but does not draw away.

"Look," Connor says, eyes pleading. "I know you are hurting, that you do not think you are capable, but you _must_ help me. People are dying."

_Oh, lad, you have _no_ idea. _

"What do you want me to do about it?" Haytham croaks, irritated that the boy won't just let him be.

Connor gives him an annoyed look that makes him look very much like Ziio.

"Just... Anything. Collect information. You are at Washington's side almost every day; you must have heard something useful."

"I know of nothing that can help you," Haytham says, and it's the truth. What he witnessed today, what he overheard... it will do no good for Connor to know.

"I killed a boy today," Connor says quietly, face drawn and grim. Haytham stares at him, raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to get to fumble his way to some sort of point. "We were brought into the throne room after you had been taken away. He was like us; the Apple did not control him. He was fourteen, if that. Half my weight. He came at me with a knife."

"Why?"

"Because he was told to. It amused Washington to send him at me. The boy apologized. Said that if he did not kill me, the guards would let the whole barracks dishonor his sister—his _younger_ sister. I tried to stop him. Took the knife away from him, easily. He still came at me. I fought him off, but, somehow the blade found his stomach. He died in my arms."

Connor's rendition is uncharacteristicly detached. He has a far away look in his eyes, as if he's somewhere else. "There will be more like him, if we do not stop this."

So, Washington is still singling out resistant people to fight to the death. Perhaps it's an attempt to break them, make them more susceptible to the Apple's influence, or perhaps just out of pure cruelty and sadism. Washington had tried the same tactic with Haytham, when he'd first been taken prisoner, only to be dismayed by his ruthless efficiency and utter lack of remorse. It was war at it's most primitive and basest level; kill or be killed. So he killed. It was only after he had worked his way through a full dozen other prisoners that Washington had decided to try a different route.

Haytham laughs. It's an awful, cruel sound that's more like a sob than anything else. Poor, tender, dear-hearted Connor. So absurdly unprepared. So naive. His son is one of the most talented, natural killers that Haytham has ever seen, and yet even the slightest bit of collateral damage seems to unnerve him.

"A boy. A single dead boy you didn't even know has you put out."

Connor tenses, draws back. "He did nothing to deserve what I did to him."

"They never do. And yet they die just as easily."

"I should have never expected you to care," Connor snaps. "There is no room in your heart for anyone but yourself."

He shouldn't say anything. No good will come of it. But he's hurting, miserable, and frustrated. He wants lash out, hurt someone in some fundamental and irreversible way to prove to himself that he's still a man, that he's something more than just a receptacle for scars and abuse and cum. And the most convenient victim just happens to be his own son. He can't hurt him, not physically, anyway, so he uses the only two weapons he has left—his wit, and his tongue.

"You're absolutely right; I don't care," growls Haytham, vocal chords protesting, "I am completely depleted of sympathy for your dead boy. And do you know why? Because I watched Washington make a man cut out his own tongue today. Because I learned that Washington intends to round up your people, subjugate them, and then let them be massacred when Lee takes Philadelphia. And there is nothing—absolutely _nothing_ that you or I can do about it."

Connor stares at him, slack-jawed, dark eyes glittering, threatening to overspill. Haytham is instantly reminded of that wet, horrible night at Valley Forge. The night that Connor threatened to kill him.

"What? You look so surprised. You shouldn't be. This is, what, only the third, forth, _fifth_ time Washington has threatened or managed to destroy your people—?"

"Shut up," Connor says, dangerously quiet.

"—It's practically a compulsion at this point. I never murdered any of your kin; why did you see fit to kill me and let him live?"

"Shut up!" he repeats, louder.

"Why? You wanted the information. Why sulk over one dead boy when there are _thousands_ to—"

Connor draws back his arm, viper-quick, all the muscles in his arm tense and coiled to strike. But he stops. He glares at Haytham teeth bared, eyes wet, and Haytham cowers, bringing up his hands to protect his face, quaking at the sight of so much naked hate.

The hit doesn't come. Connor's hand wavers, and then drops. He stands, goes to the opposite side of the room, and slides down the wall. Crosses his arms over his chest and buries his head between his knees. His shoulders shudder, but he doesn't make a sound.

Not for the last time that evening, Haytham wonders:

_What the hell is wrong with me?_


	10. Chapter 9

_**April, 1760**_

"We suspect the Master Assassin is a negro," Charles says, walking beside Haytham at a leisurely pace, one hand leading his lathered mare by her bridle, the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He looks about him warily, eyes scanning the forest, as if expecting to be ambushed by a pack of wolves or a raiding party of irate natives at any given turn of the path.

"Really? That's... rather brilliant, actually," Admits Haytham, leading his own horse laden with parcels.

Charles' eyebrows raise. "'Brilliant?' You sound almost impressed."

Haytham had wondered how the Assassin killed so effectively, completely evading all detection, carrying out their ancient vendetta with surgical precision and the utmost quietude. The recent deaths had been all too carefully planned to not to be the work of the same man. The first incident had been a Justice of the Peace sympathetic to the Templar cause. The papers had reported that the man had become clumsy with drink one night and had fallen off his horse, dashing his head on the cobbled streets of Boston, but Haytham had suspected otherwise. On closer inspection, the man's skull had been broken and face bloodied in a careful, controlled manner; all the better to disguise the knife wound through the eye. They might not have ever discovered the subterfuge had it not been for Benjamin Church's careful examination.

The next had been a Brother that was, all had assured, fast on his way to being appointed the colonial governor of Connecticut. He had excused himself during a ball that Benjamin had hosted at his new Boston manse. Only the upper echelons of society had been permitted entrance. The hope had been that Haytham could generate some interest for their various projects while furthering the Templar agenda. The prospective governor was found an hour later in a servants' privy, still immaculately dressed and powdered, the handsomeness of his clothing somewhat diminished by all the blood from his slashed throat. After that, none of the guests had much cared for what Haytham had to say on the subject of bringing order to the new world, so eager were they to run from the house, screaming.

The most recent had been John Pitcarin's relation, killed in a discrete New York whore house that catered to clientele with a taste for the masculine. He had been initiated only three days prior. One minute the young man had been fine, and the next he had been gasping for breath, sweating and trembling and clutching his stomach, and then had expired shortly thereafter. Haytham suspected poisoned wine, but hadn't been given a chance to investigate; the bottle had been broken and the whore that had entertained the lad had disappeared in the chaos that had ensued. The death had served the dual purposes of thinning Templar ranks and thoroughly embarrassing the prominent Pitcarin clan in a town where reputation was everything.

A negro Assassin was a perfect weapon. Blacks were ubiquitous in the colonies and Caribbean. There was so much construction and demand for labor of all types; an unfamiliar face was a routine sight and few questions were asked when it came to origins. Most would pay the lot of them little or no heed. With the right clothes, the right bearing, and some careful acting, such a man could be practically invisible, if he so wished. After all, who would spare a second glance for a ditch digger walking along the road after a hard day's work, a lower house servant of attending to a gentleman's privy, yet another exotic prostitute hustling in a place veiled in secrecy?

"I am indeed impressed. It's an excellent strategy; I only wish we were the ones implementing it," Haytham muses, idly reaching up to run his fingers through the branches of a flowering crab apple tree as the two men pass, creating a flurry of pink petals in their wake. "Very interesting indeed."

"Not interesting enough, it would seem," Charles says, "For you to become involved." His words carry just the slightest burn of acid.

Haytham sighs. "Templar and Assassin have been battling for thousands of years, before there were even names to delineate one order from the other. My involvement would solve little. I've given you all the necessary tools and training to deal with the situation while I engage in other pursuits."

"You mean like setting up a homestead in the woods," Charles says, deadpan.

"Like studying the Precursor site," Is Haytham's clipped reply.

"You do know that there is an inconvenient amount of tension between going on in these parts; a War, I believe it's called," Charles remarks dryly.

"Why, now that you mention it, I believe I _have_ heard some news to that effect."

"Perhaps this is not the most opportune time to be prodding about in disputed territories, then. Lest you offend the delicate sensibilities of the locals and they decide to scalp you for your troubles."

"Then it's a good thing that I have one of the finest young Captains in His Majesty's army to attend to the well-being of my hair, then," Haytham says jovially, clapping a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "It is still 'Captain' Lee?"

"Not for long, I have reason to believe that I will be promoted to Major soon enough, thanks to _some_one's benevolent influence," Charles says, and a smile tugs at his lip, but he still looks troubled. "But I don't believe my military advancement was the subject we were discussing." Haytham sighs. It was worth a shot.

"Yes, well, living up here on a nearly full time basis allows me to focus much effort on contemplating the site," Haytham replies defensively.

"And, doubtless, the tomato, squash and potato sprouts aid your studies greatly." Charles' eyes flick behind them to Haytham's package-laden horse.

"If I were to return to civilization every time I required food, I would be constantly on the road and accomplish nothing but wearing out the seat of my breeches. Growing my own sustenance is the most practical course of action."

"Right. So this retreat from the city—it wouldn't have anything to do with the woman."

Haytham's heart sinks. He sighs. "You weren't supposed to know."

"Secrets like that do not keep, sir."

"I didn't want—damn it, Charles, it isn't as if I _planned_ this to happen."

"And what does your squaw think of you critiquing her ancestral cave doodlings?"

"Her name is Ziio," Haytham says sharply, "And, to be frank, sir, I find your lack of respect for her people appalling."

Charles lowers his eyes to the forest floor. "Apologies, Master Kenway," he says, stiffly.

Haytham sighs. "Don't be like that, Charles."

"I was under the impression that we were friends. Friends do not keep secrets from each other, not of this magnitude."

"I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't approve," Haytham says, almost a grumble. What he _wanted_ to do was make some snide comment about Charles' own secretive activities, but he didn't dare. It would ruin an otherwise pleasant afternoon. Not that, Haytham suspected, things were to remain pleasant for much longer, not with this line of inquiry.

"But I would have understood. And I would have respected your decision. I always do."

"And yet you see fit to question me now."

"You made me your second-in-command because you wanted me to be free with my opinions with respect to the Order. All men have needs, desires, but this move into the wilderness is detrimental to our other objectives."

"I have a feeling that if I can solve the cave's riddle, everything else will be inconsequential."

"It's been there for thousands of years, what's a few more months? Mr. Johnson is seeing to the acquisition of the lands; once the war quiets down you'll be able to study in safety. But for now you are sorely needed in Boston. Bring your woman, if you must. I assume she knows..." A pause. "You _have_ told her of your intentions?"

The silence between them lasts a dozen steps. "She doesn't know," Haytham says.

"You are not going to be able to keep something of this import from her for very long, Haytham. She's going to find out."

He sighs. "I know."

"If—_when_ she discovers your deceit, she will be most wroth," Charles says, frowning, eyes beseeching. He's sympathetic—no, he _looks_ sympathetic, Haytham has to remind himself. Even though they have been friends for years, Haytham has always been at a slight disadvantage when it comes to _truly_ knowing what the other man is thinking. Charles has a masterful command of his face when it's required of him; he would make a fine actor and an even finer politician, had he not such a short and fiery temper.

"Better to end it now, to minimize the damage. Come back with me, Haytham. There are ample women in the Colonies. John has—"

"Oh, doubtless Major Pitcarin has a gaggle of eligible female relations that would be stabbing each other in the back for the opportunity of spending my father's fortune," Haytham grumbles. "I do not want a simpering, flighty, painted fool of a woman, Charles, I want _her_."

He'd had other women before Ziio, that was true enough, but none had ever kept his interest for longer than a few weeks at most. Once he had satisfied himself in bed and cleared his head of judgment-skewing lust, there was often little about them to hold his interest. Many he found downright detestable. Ziio is different in every aspect. She is not servile and chaste, not drenched in unguents and cloying perfume, not sequestered in pounds of ridiculous petticoats and slathered in ceruse. She's practical, athletic, fearless. Beautiful, inside and out.

"Well, we can't always have what we want," says Charles, a touch sadly. His words are poignant because Haytham knows the emotion behind them is a real one. "Leave her, Haytham, before you're found out. It's for the best. For both of you."

"I cannot. Things have become... complicated."

"What kind of complica..." Charles trails off, frowning, crimping his lips together. Charles is very bright. It was this useful trait among many others that had attracted Grandmaster Reginald Birch's attention. He is quick to infer, to make connections. He clears his throat. "Is it a boy or girl?" he asks, reluctantly.

"You know, most gentlemen would offer congratulations upon discovering that their closest friend is a father," Haytham grumbles testily.

"You and I are a far cry from being like 'most gentlemen,'" he points out, his frown deepening. "Haytham, you told me you never wanted to have children."

"No, I believe I said that I didn't want children brought into this sort of life," Haytham says, mirroring his frown. He doesn't like this, being on the defense. He much prefers to be leading the attack.

Charles looks at him with no small amount of alarm. "Are you saying that you are leaving the Order?" He's quiet, almost a whisper, as if he's worried that the trees have ears.

"No! Don't be ridiculous," Haytham snaps at him, actually insulted that Charles would ever dare suggest such an unthinkable act. "I'm saying I don't want to push my son to be a..." He trails off. What _does_ he want? He shakes his head. "I don't know, Charles. I just—perhaps I want to give him the opportunity to say 'no'. To make his own decisions, decide his own fate. It was a consideration and luxury that I was never afforded," he points out, glumly.

"Master Birch will not be pleased to hear it," Charles says. Haytham's hands tighten into fists.

"I don't give a good Goddamn what Reginald thinks—I'm not a child anymore! I can do as I see fit! I'm still carrying out his instructions; he sent me here to investigate the Precursor site and that is precisely what I am doing."

Charles gives a ragged sigh. "This will not end well, Haytham. For anyone involved—You belong with us. In the civilized world, not out here in these god-forsaken woods. There's so much more to accomplish—"

Haytham whirls on him, eyes flashing. "You have made your opinions known, sir! Another word on the matter and I'll bloody your nose!" Charles stops as well, narrows his eyes, and squares himself. Haytham has to incline his head slightly upwards to meet Charles' glare; the man's height is intimidating, and Haytham is by no means a small man.

"If the sight of my blood would make you see sense, _sir_, then go right ahead."

They both know he will do no such thing, but Charles obviously has no intention of dropping the subject. It's unusual for him to be so obstinate. A different tactic, then. He just hopes that it will have the desired effect without incurring too much collateral damage.

"Oh, come off it, Charles. This jealousy of yours is very unbecoming."

Charles glowers at him, brow beetled. "What in the devil are you talking about?" He scoffs. "Do you really think it my most earnest wish to traipse about in the woods, hunting squirrels, scrabbling in the dirt, chopping wood and fending off wolves?"

"You and I both know it's not my living in the woods that has you out of sorts."

Charles' feigned ignorance is perfect. "You think I'm jealous? Of you and your wild woman?" Even his chuckle is carefully contrived.

"You can drop the act, Charles. I know how you truly feel about me."

He _didn't_ know, not entirely, but when all the color drains from the man's face, Haytham realizes his suspicions were correct. He's treated to the rare sight of Charles Lee's true emotions. His light green eyes widen and his mouth is slack with abject horror. Haytham flushes, mutually uncomfortable. Ambushing his friend is a new low... this is the last thing he wants to do to the man, but he needs to put Charles in his place.

"I—I—" Charles sputters, his face this time flushing with embarrassment, "But—_how_?"

"I made inquiries," Haytham says, gently.

Charles' mouth bows wretchedly and he looks past Haytham to the creek beyond that the path follows, the trees, his horse—in short, looking everywhere but at Haytham's face. Finally, his gaze settles on the ground.

"Who was it?" He asks quietly, voice quavering. _Oh dear lord, please, don't let him start to weep..._

"Does it matter?"

"Who, _sir_?" He demands. Haytham doesn't care for the tone of that. He hopes he's not going to be on the receiving end of Charles' temper.

"Thomas."

When Haytham had brought Thomas Hickey into the fold, John Pitcarin had privately voiced his dissent. "Mr Hickey," He had said, "Is brutish, vulgar, and has a hand in almost every unseemly business in Boston, legal or no." Haytham had responded, "You are most correct, sir. Which is why we need him on _our_ side." With Thomas' invaluable knowledge, Haytham had his finger on the pulse of the seedier aspect of the colonies; who was evading their taxes, who was flouting the Navigation Acts and smuggling in goods not produced in England, who was running protection rackets, pyramid schemes, engaging in blackmail, killing for profit, ad infinitum.

Mr. Hickey also knew who visited whore houses, which ones they frequented, and what sort of services the client asked for. It had taken almost no prompting at all for Thomas to supply the name and location of Charles' favorite haunt; a place in Boston that was similar in reputation to the establishment where Captain Pitcarin's relation would later be murdered. Thomas had been most reluctant to volunteer anything else, though. When Haytham went to go investigate himself, he bribed the madam quite liberally and had asked about Charles' habits. She had pointed out a man that had looked as if he could have passed as Haytham's brother. He had thought the resemblance too strong to be mere coincidence.

"That uncouth, disingenuous, whoreson!" Charles growls.

"Don't blame him, Charles. He was just following orders." Haytham goes to place a placating hand on Charles' shoulder but he jerks away.

"You had no right," He says miserably, "My... what I do it—it was a matter that did not concern you!"

"I had a right to know if you were engaging in any activities that would compromise our Order," Haytham tells him, a gentle reprimand, "We investigate every man and woman who seeks to join us, recommendation from a Grandmaster or no. The Assassins would have wiped us out centuries ago if we didn't take such precautions. I looked into you and didn't find anything about you that suggested that you had divided loyalties. Thus, when the time was appropriate, I made you my Brother."

Charles looks at him sharply, shocked. "You—you _knew_, all this time?"

"I did."

"And you said _nothing_."

"As you said, it's a private matter. I didn't want to be having this conversation. I knew it would upset you."

"And yet we are still having it. And you _have_ upset me."

"To illustrate a point, Charles," Says Haytham, and he tugs on the lead of his horse, beginning their slow walk again.

"And that is?" Charles asks, voice rough, following.

"That we can't always choose who we care about."

They walk. They had been walking side by side, when the width of the path had allowed it, but now the younger man hangs back. Haytham can scarcely recall a more deafening silence; the void between them drowns out the birdsong, the gurgle of the stream, and the hooves of their horses until all Haytham can hear is the words that they are not saying to each other.

"I'm sorry, Charles," Haytham says, trying to defuse the tension. When Charles doesn't reply Haytham looks at him back over his shoulder. The other man watches the ground, shoulders slumped. Haytham shoots him a smile that is supposed to look warm and comforting but in all likelihood is wan and anxious. "If it's any consolation, I don't mind. I've never thought ill of you for it. I'm actually rather flattered." He isn't lying. Had he found the information disturbing? Yes, but only at first, really. The knowledge had explained quite a bit about Charles' behavior towards him.

Evidently, it is not consoling. Charles' eyes flick to his and he looks away again, shamefaced. "Oh, good lord..." Charles moans.

"I did not wish for any awkwardness between us, that's why I waited so long to tell you—"

"Sir, _please_," He begs, "May we just change the subject?"

Whole minutes pass in silence. Haytham fingers the odd bit of metal that is hanging from a leather cord around his neck.

"I sent to Reginald for an expert about a fortnight ago," He says, trying to broach the silence once more. "The markings in that cave are indeed consistent with other Precursor antiquities. This pendant—it is connected in all of this, somehow. When I brought it inside the cave, the markings glowed, Charles. I've never seen anything quite like it."

He's told him all this before; Haytham's just trying to bridge the void between them. Charles makes no indication that he's even listening. He continues anyway, perhaps hoping that their work will take Charles' mind from the bomb that Haytham had so casually and tactlessly thrown into his lap.

"It's a door, I'm almost certain of it; there's a seam in the wall where air escapes from the other side. There's a hollow in the wall, smooth and even as the finest porcelain bowl, a little larger than a fist. I think, maybe, that is the lock. All we need is a different key. I have my suspicions on what that key may be, but I wanted to get a second opinion from someone more scholarly."

"Very good, sir," Charles says stiffly. Obviously, he could care less about the cave at this point.

More silence passes.

"The crab apple blossoms are lovely," Haytham observes when he can stand it no longer.

"Yes," Charles agrees glumly, "Yes, they are quite lovely."

Haytham sighs. _Well. This is perfectly disastrous. _

Neither man says another word for the rest of their walk.


	11. Chapter 10

"You live _here_?" Charles asks as they emerge out of the tree line.

Haytham's protégé sounds dismayed and more than a little concerned, as if his Grandmaster had just presented him with a lean-to piled with rags and straw in some dirty London back-alley and pronounced it his home. The tone plays on Haytham's nerves, but he doesn't comment. Haytham had built the structure himself, armed with nothing more than raw wood, sweat, and stubborn determination. He couldn't risk bringing in carpenters, so Ziio had suggested that the house be built in the fashion of her people, to better throw off snow and suspicion. Haytham's wooded retreat is a far cry from Benjamin Church's splendid manse but it's warm and snug and he's immensely proud of it.

Ziio sits cross legged in front of the cook fire. There are rabbits roasting on a spit and a freshly eviscerated deer hanging in a nearby tree, the contents of its chest cavity draining into a bucket. Even with her hair a mess from hunting and skin bloody up to the elbows, she's still beautiful.

She looks up at the sound of approaching hoof beats and the rattle of packs. Her smile is sphinx-like, mysterious, says so many things that words cannot convey. Even though he has spent years at her side, shared her bed and even had a child with her, his heart still skips a beat. Every fiber of his being wants to go to her. He wants to envelop her in his arms and kiss her until she either pokes him in the ribs and laughs at him for being so foolishly romantic, or moans into his mouth and sinks under his welcome weight.

He can't, though. Not with Charles there. Haytham hadn't expected her back for at least another week, hence Charles' presence. Haytham and Charles had decided that the best way to waste Charles' furlough was to spend it hunting and fishing around Haytham's homestead, something that the younger man had been keen to explore. Now Haytham sees that his subterfuge was pointless; there's no way he would have been able to hide his secret double life.

Ziio's eyes turn cool as they fall on Captain Charles Lee. She knows that the man is Haytham's closest friend, but she does not trust him. She has her reasons. Young George Washington had been granted the rank of Colonel after General Braddock's assassination, as well as the dead man's command. Why, Haytham wasn't entirely sure. Probably because it had been deemed appropriate that a son of Virginia should lead a Virginian regiment of militiamen, and also he was one of the few officers to survive the disastrous ambush at the Monongahela River. Lieutenant Charles Lee had been a member of Braddock's regiment and thus placed under Colonel Washington's command. That association alone would have been enough to color Ziio's opinion of Charles, but her wariness and distaste for him would be compounded by yet more events beyond Charles' control.

Earlier that year Colonel Washington had arrived at Ziio's village, soldiers in tow, irrefutably with hostile intentions. Haytham had been there that day, visiting Ziio and their son. It had been only himself and Ziio's people (mostly farmers and a few hunters) against more than a hundred seasoned soldiers. Ziio had been furious. He could tell that she'd wanted to take the fight to them, but she was more concerned about their child. Talented as she and Haytham were, it would have been suicide to attempt to fight them in the open. He bid her and her people to get into their long boats and paddle out as far as they could into the lake; he did not go with them. Outnumbered and out-maneuvered, he implemented a different plan of attack—the truth.

Charles was there beside Washington, arguing against razing the village to the ground when Haytham had stomped out into the snow from beyond the palisade, alone and unarmed. Washington had looked startled; perhaps he recognized Haytham as the man who had killed his predecessor, but equally it could have been the fact that an Englishman had just materialized out of an Indian village leagues from anywhere that could have been called civilization. Charles looked just as surprised, and more than a little alarmed.

Haytham, without preamble, proceeded to berate Washington, loudly and scathingly, in front of the colonel's entire company. He made sure that every man heard how this man, all six-foot-four of him, had been beaten down and brought low by a woman—a _savage_ woman, at that, and less than half his size—who had wanted to do nothing but avenge the indiscriminate slaughter and enslavement of her people. And for that unseemly humiliation Washington was willing to murder a village of innocent women and children that had resided peaceably in their little valley since time began. And, he pointed out, they had not participated in the war in the slightest.

Washington had stammered, made some excuse that he was there to avenge the death of his former commander. The colonel flinched at Haytham's harsh laughter. Washington's men shifted uncomfortably behind their commander; the ones that had been present the day of Braddock's death no doubt recalled how the general had shot one of his own men in the face for the high crime of asking questions. For the soldiers that were not there that day, Haytham summarized as well as recited a litany of General Braddock's other crimes both in the colonies and abroad. Haytham named Washington a fool for trying to defend the legacy of such a man, and for squandering precious resources and man-power on a pointless personal vendetta to avenge a scoundrel of the lowest caliber.

For a moment, Haytham thought that the ploy wouldn't work, but Washington had looked back at the men under his command and blanched; most of the men appeared uncertain and there were some that met Washington's gaze with outright contempt. Americans made fickle soldiers. There was no love lost between the colonists and the natives, certainly, but outright slaughter of non-combatants was still frowned upon, heathens or no. There were tensions stirring between the colonists and their less-than-benevolent British overlords as the war stretched into its sixth year with no end in sight; doubtless the tales of Braddock's cruelties inflicted upon both Indians and Americans rankled.

Unexpectedly, it was Charles that had come to Washington's rescue, suggesting that perhaps if Master Kenway could assure them of the tribe's continued neutrality, there would be no need to put the village to the torch. "Besides, there have been reports that the French are attempting to establish a fort to the North of here; surely victory over a more certain enemy would bring more lasting commendation and glory than slaughtering a bunch of godless dirt-worshipers, would it not?"

Washington had stared at the two of them for a moment, ashen-faced, not speaking, and then had flushed, abruptly turned his horse around, and gave the orders to march. His normally ram-rod posture had been bowed by the weight of his humiliation. Haytham almost felt sorry for Washington. Almost. Browbeating him into retreating had been child's play. Gentlemen did not belittle and criticize each other in public, especially not in front of their subordinates. It was simply not done. The young colonel had been completely unprepared for such a spontaneous and vicious attack on his character.

If Haytham and Charles hadn't been there that day... Haytham shuddered at the thought. He knew that Ziio's village was far from safe so long as Washington held even the slightest modicum of power. He would need to be dealt with as well. He could kill him, Haytham supposes, but that could be messy and all too easily draw attention to their Order, which is the last thing he wants. A character assassination, though, that was another thing entirely. A botched engagement or two and a few strategically placed words in the right ears and Colonel Washington's reputation could be ruined. If Washington was painted as incapable, indecisive and reckless, they would have no choice but to assign the command of the regiment to the next most senior officer—and that would be Captain, soon to be Major Charles Lee.

Ziio rises to wash her hands in a bucket. Charles halts, doffs his soldier's tricorne and bows slightly at the waist.

"Madam, a pleasure," he says. He sounds as if he has recovered himself somewhat and his words sound sincere.

She nods in turn. "Lee."

"I hadn't expected you back so soon, my dear," Haytham admits, turning to his horse and fiddling with the straps to release the animal from her burden. In a few short strides Ziio is at his side. Neither one of them are people that show their affection publicly; rather than making any move to embrace him she starts helping him with the packages. Their hands brush against each other whilst undoing a knot and her touch is agonizing after so many weeks apart.

"There is a fever in the village. I did not want to expose Ratonhnhaké:ton." In case Charles has missed her meaning, she elaborates, "Our son."

"Rah... Radon..." Charles frowns. Like Haytham, his tongue can't seem to form the words.

"Don't bother." Haytham grins. "I just call him Hayden."

Ziio rolls her eyes but smiles indulgently. "That is because you are lazy and can only pronounce the last parts. And not even that well."

Just as Haytham was unable to articulate Ziio's true name, he had been equally unable to pronounce his son's. He would have preferred to name the boy something else, but Ziio would have none of it. She wanted the boy to have a native upbringing, at least for the first few years. Haytham had to call the boy something, though, and Hayden had been the closest name in English that the last two syllables—"ké:ton"—had resembled, at least to his British ears. He also liked how the name closely mirrored his own exotic Arabic name. Thus the colloquialism stuck; the boy was Ratonhnhaké:ton in his mother's world and Hayden in his father's.

"Speaking of the little devil, where is he?"

"Behind you," A child's sing-song voice announces. Haytham turns. The boy grins up at him. When Haytham had first been presented with the squalling, wrinkled babe, he'd been rather shocked at the resemblance to Edward, his own father. Now, though, he only resembles Haytham about the set of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, and his lighter skin. It's in the nature of children's faces to change as they grow older, but for now he is decidedly his mother's creature.

His apparent stealthiness is something the lad inherited from both parents. There are crab apple petals in his tangled, shoulder-length hair; he must have been trailing the two men for a distance. The knees of his deerskin pants are caked with dirt and his face is similarly smudged. Charles stares at the boy as if coming upon a species previously unknown to man. Inwardly, Haytham cringes; he hadn't wanted Charles' opinion of the boy to be colored by the boy's dirty clothing and bird's nest hair, but he reminds himself that his boy is indeed that, a _boy_, and male children in particular seek dirt like camels to water no matter their upbringing, culture or class. His pride eclipses all other misgivings; he positively beams at the boy.

"C'mere, you," Haytham growls, seizes the four-year-old about the waist and hoists him into the air. Hayden squeals in delight. He sets the boy back down before him, facing a decidedly ill-at-ease Charles. "I've someone I want you to meet, Hayden."

Charles squats down so that he's eye-level with the boy. The two stare at each other, their faces equally mystified.

"Hello," Charles says, smile tentative, and presents his large right hand to the boy. "I'm Charles. I'm a friend of your father's."

The boy does not take the proffered hand. He continues to stare at Charles full in the face with those large, dark, piercing eyes. Hayden says something incomprehensible.

"English, please," Haytham commands gently.

"You have grass eyes," the boy declares with utmost solemnity.

Charles looks up at Haytham, brow beetled.

"Green, Hayden," Haytham says.

"Green," the boy agrees.

"We're working on his English vocabulary," Haytham says, mussing his son's hair affectionately. "And his manners, apparently. Hayden, take his hand." The boy's hand all but disappears in Charles' gloved one. "You're the first white man he's encountered aside from myself, I suppose."

"Firm grip," Charles notes, releasing the boy's hand. "Very good. You'll be as strong as your father one day."

Hayden beams at him. Charles grins bemusedly back.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," says Ziio.

"Hen, ista?"

She says something in Mohawk to the boy. Haytham makes out the words for potato, onion, and carrot. The boy sheepishly replies, makes some word of protest, but Ziio gives him _that_ look, the face that all women learn the instant they become mothers and the boy submits. Hayden gives Charles another searching look, and then scampers off to the house, vanishing behind the bearskin that serves for a door.

"I sent him to gather the makings for a stew," Ziio explains, "It will be ready shortly."

"Will there be enough for four?"

"Of course," she says.

"Oh, no. I wouldn't want to be a bother," Charles says quickly, straightening, donning his hat once more. "I should probably be on my way."

"Don't be ridiculous, you only just got here!" Haytham objects merrily. "It's nearly evening; it'll be full dark sooner than you think. There's room enough for all of us."

"I think not," Charles says, frowning and shifting uneasily, his hand already on the pommel of his saddle. "I have business in the city."

Ziio looks at Charles and manages a small smile. "Please, stay. Any friend of the Brotherhood is a friend of mine."

Haytham's blood turns to ice in his veins. He looks at Charles. A muscle in his cheek spasms, a twitch so slight that had Haytham not been watching for it he might have missed it entirely.

"A hot meal would be delightful, madam," He says, his voice carefully neutral, "But I'm afraid duty calls."

"At least let me walk you back to the path," Haytham offers. Charles' nod is reluctant. Haytham hesitates, looking at the packs, but Ziio tells him to go; she'll take care of it.

They are fifty yards into the trees before either man says anything.

"Which 'Brotherhood' is she referring to?" Charles asks, voice bow-string tight.

"The wrong one," Is Haytham's soft reply.

"She thinks we're Assassins," Charles growls, grimacing in disgust, "My God, Haytham, this is—I don't have words to describe what this is. It's depraved. What were you _thinking_?"

Haytham's gut roils. "I _wasn't _thinking_, _Charles, is that what you wish to hear?" He hisses back. "I never told her I was an Assassin."

"No. You just let her see that damned hidden blade of yours and let her think—"

"To get access to the site, yes," He said sharply. Ziio had noticed the broken symbol on his bracer when he had first tracked her down in the wilderness. She had seemed to respond rather more warmly to him after that, confirming his suspicions that there were Assassins active nearby. So he had never lied, not technically, but letting her make her own assumptions about his affiliations... Well. That had perhaps been worse.

"And when were you going to correct her misconception?" He demands, eyes flashing.

"I never intended to," Says Haytham, stammering, "She was just supposed to be a means to an end. I never intended to love her, it just sort of... happened. I thought about telling her, but... it just..."

"No, I rather suppose telling her the truth would ruin your delusional portrait of domestic bliss," Charles growls back. "I stand corrected. She won't leave you, when she finds out—she's more like to slit your throat."

And this gives Haytham pause. She wouldn't. No. _No._ Of course not. Because—

"She loves me," Haytham reminds Charles, reminds himself.

"She _can't_ love you, Haytham, she doesn't even _know_ you!" Charles snaps loudly enough that his words reverberate in the trees and cause the birds to pause in their song.

"And I suppose _you_ do?" Haytham responds, just as vitriolic. Charles' mouth thins and Haytham watches the blood rise in his cheeks but it's not enough to cow him.

"I _do_ know you, sir. Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself," Charles says more quietly. "You're so blinded by sentiment that you cannot see that you've built yourself a life on a powder keg. It's only a matter of time before it explodes and takes you with it."

"Then in the mean time I'll put out as many fires as I can," Haytham replies curtly.

Charles stares at him, frowning. There's that sympathy in his eyes again, mingled with regret. He then shakes his head, looks at Haytham again, and his eyes are cold. He's no longer Charles; he's Captain Lee, the soldier, the tactician. He mounts his horse. The poor beast looks half exhausted already; he'll probably need to make camp before nightfall.

"I've assigned men in Lexington and Concord, should you have need to get me a message."

"Very well," He replies. "Safe travels, Charles." His protégé nods stiffly and then gives the horse a nudge with his spurs.

Haytham watches the man's retreating back for quite some time and then continues to stare long after he disappears from view. It was a good decision, naming Charles his second-in-command; the man is devoted to Haytham, but he's equally devoted to the Order and never shrinks from speaking his mind. Charles was right. Damn it, he was _always_ right. Charles managed to put into words all the disjointed feelings and pessimistic notions that have been plaguing Haytham for—well, _years_ now. Part of him knew all along that this was a foolish endeavor; that he was letting sentimentality and weakness cloud his unerring judgment, but he had never wanted to believe—to even consider—that he was making the wrong decisions.

For one of the few times in his strange, driven life, Haytham Edward Kenway doesn't know what to do. He stands there, idly stroking the Precursor artifact at his neck. He can't live between two worlds; he has to pick one before the other forces his hand and makes his choice for him. Birds sing and chirp, squirrels flit after one another in the trees. There is the slap of water in the distance, maybe a trout, maybe a beaver. He wants a distraction from his own thoughts but cannot find one. He grinds through scenarios and courses of action in his head, but each one is more grim and abhorrent than the last and his stomach clenches at the idea of all of the potential loss.

Something touches his elbow and he flinches, instantly on guard, but it's Ziio.

"Ah! You startled me."

"Not an easy thing to do," she says. She's smiling in that enigmatic way of hers. Charles is right, but _this_ is right too, the way she fits so well against his body, the way she instinctively tilts her face just so to meet his when he leans down for a kiss. He enfolds her in his arms, smiling back, and Charles' recriminations and admonishments melt away, a vague and disquieting dream only remembered in fragments after waking. Even just the _smell_ of her is intoxicating—earthy, dark and exotic. "You must have been far away."

"I suppose so," he says. She cannot know how true her statement is.

"Are you and Lee fighting?"

"Not exactly," he says, and smooths a hand over her ebony hair. "Just a difference of opinion."

"Mmm." Her hand rests on the small of his back. "Sounded like you were arguing."

He wonders how much she had heard. Not much, he supposes, otherwise she wouldn't be smiling at him. "Charles is having some troubles, that's all."

"Anything I need to concern myself with?"

"If you're asking if I need to leave, then no. I'm sure he can handle it."

"Good," She says, grinning slyly, and gives him a playful swat to the ass.

"Madam! Contain yourself!" He gasps in mock outrage.

"I will not," Ziio laughs, grinning like a girl half her age, and pinches the back of his thigh through the fabric of his breeches.

"Then I will have to restrain you," He purrs in her ear.

"You can try," She says provocatively, and grabs him about the waist.

Somehow they end up on the ground, gasping, breathless from laughter, Haytham's back wet from moss and leaves and Ziio is straddling him, her knees to either side of his waist. His groin is pressed tantalizingly beneath her and he can feel the want stirring in his gut.

"Ah, it appears you win, my darling."

"Only because you let me," She teases. Then her smile fades and her face becomes more solemn, her dark brown eyes searching the steel gray of his. "Haytham?"

"What is it?" He replies cautiously.

"You would not..." This time she frowns outright. "I do not ask about the nature of your work because I do not think I want to know, but... You would not keep something from me, would you?"

"Never," He whispers without a moment's hesitation. He reaches a hand up to stroke the side of her face. She leans into his touch.

He's appalled by the way the lie falls so easily from his lips, hates himself for how convincing it sounds. It shouldn't be this easy to mislead her; she should have been able to see right through it. He can see it in her face that she's turning the word over in her head, considering. And just like that, she smiles again. The storm passes gently by. She's shrugged off whatever suspicions she might have because she _wants_ to believe him, doesn't want to think of the alternative and all that implies. Ziio bends down; her hair falling around him, her lips brushing the shell of his ear in a way that she knows makes him shiver in delight.

"I am a terrible mother," She says.

"You are no such thing," He counters, not letting his relief show on his face. His hands find her firm, slim waist under her loose-fitting garment.

"I am," Ziio insists, "I told Ratonhnhaké:ton to gather carrots from the larder for the stew."

"So?"

"There are none. But he is stubborn, like you. He will search for a quarter of an hour before thinking of looking for help."

Haytham stares up into her mischievous eyes, puzzled. "But why would you—" She rolls her hips against his and he grunts, blood immediately rushing to the area. "Oh," He gasps.

"'Oh,'" She agrees, smirking.

In two months it will be summer. The expert that Haytham had requested, Mr. Thompson, will arrive in the Colonies and Haytham will show him the site. The Templar scholar will tell him yes, that the diameter of the hole in the cave is indeed similar to the dimensions of an Apple, the most powerful of the Pieces of Eden. Later, Ziio will find Mr. Thompson at the Precursor site making rubbings of the hieroglyphic-like markings. Thompson'll put up a fight, but in the end she'll pin him to the ground with a knife to his throat and he'll tell her everything—about the Templars, their ambitions to buy the land upon which the cave sits, and how Haytham had been the one to mastermind it all.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she'll slit the man's throat right there in the cave. Ziio will come back to their little homestead, screaming and raging, her hands still covered in blood. She'll take their sobbing and terrified son into the forest, deaf to all of Haytham's pleas and excuses, and whirl on him when he tries to follow. She'll slash his arm with a blade so keen that he won't realize he's cut until his arm is hot and slick with his own blood.

Haytham will abandon the homestead. He'll turn up at Charles' quarters in Boston, weeping and insensate with drink, and Charles won't even comment about how right he had been, he'll just welcome his broken friend with open arms. He'll let Haytham's grief run its course and he'll be there to put the pieces back together. Haytham will admit to Charles that the younger man had been right all along, that he'd been a fool to even try to pursue anything outside of the Order. Charles will merely nod, and then he will tell Haytham about some interesting rumors that Hickey had heard from smugglers passing through Boston. Stories about strange lights in the ruins of an ancient temple in the heart of the deepest, densest jungle.

But Haytham doesn't know any of this, of course. Couldn't even be persuaded to give a damn. Not now, not with her body so close to his, not after so long apart. Her body is lithe and strong beneath his hands, her skin silky and soft over hard, supple muscle. He kisses her and she melts, spreading her body over his. Even through the layers of fabric he can feel the heat of her core near his straining flesh. He pushes aside her tunic and eases a hand into her loose-fitting trousers and Ziio knows what he's about immediately because she moans, pushing up her hips so that he can sink his fingers inside. He marvels at the wet, silky heat of her, delights in how the muscles tremble and flutter around his fingers and he groans to think what she'll feel like when he's sheathed himself inside her.

"Haytham," She hisses, breathy, ever impatient, but there's something... off about it. Her voice is too deep, bears an edge of irritation. His hand stills and he opens his eyes. Ziio is still staring down at him, long dark hair framing her face, lips parted and flushed, pupils blown with lust.

"Is something wrong?" He murmurs.

"Don't stop," She gasps, clenching down on his fingers, so he adds a third, his thumb caressing her clit and she shudders. Her moan is pure aphrodisiac. Then she snaps, "Stop that!" and this time it's clearly not her voice, it's a _man's_ voice, sharp and aggravated. Before he can ask what in hell is going on her hand snakes inside his breeches, finds his cock, strokes him until he's rolling his hips to meet her, gasping and completely at her mercy.

And then he really _is_ gasping, because someone drives a sharp elbow into his guts.

Haytham's eyes fly open and it's not Ziio. It's Connor. And he looks none too pleased.


	12. Chapter 11

Haytham can only sputter and jerk back, almost falling off the pallet, gasping for air that will not come. The boy had not hit him particularly hard, but it had caught him completely unaware and it feels like he can't draw enough air in his lungs. He almost panics, struggling with the impulse to curl in upon himself to protect himself from further attack and the desperate necessity for more air.

As Haytham struggles, his son maneuvers himself away, sitting up and leaning against the brick wall at his back. Connor surveys him as if he were some bit of trash or dog shit caked to the bottom of a boot after an arduous journey, something to be scraped off and discarded. Chest and diaphragm heaving like a broken-winded horse, Haytham manages to gasp, "Why?"

Connor's eyes are weary, cold and pitiless; he tilts his head, the corners of his mouth turn down and he squints at him as if to say, _Do you really have to ask?_

But what...? Oh. _That_. His cock is so ridiculously, stupidly hard that it feels like he could pound nails into wood with it, the offending extremity tenting out his trousers in a sickeningly lewd way.

"I didn't—It—I was dreaming!" He pants, red in the face, trying and failing to come up with a reasonable excuse for what's just happened.

"I had hoped," Says Connor, voice sleep-rough and irritated, "That when you had been brought back to your senses I could get one—just _one_—decent night of rest without you humping my leg."

Oh dear god. Haytham rubs his hands over his face. "This has happened before?" He can't help but ask, dreading the answer. His guts churn and he feels like throwing up.

"Almost every night," Connor sneers. "You were like an animal when I found you. You threw yourself at me scarcely a minute after they put me in the cell with you."

_No. No, no, NO_, He thinks, horrified,_ That wasn't me_, "That was the bloody aphrodisiacs—" He begins.

"That you insist on drinking!" Connor snaps, interrupting him.

Right. The tea. Perhaps that was why he had been thinking of Ziio, and it certainly explains why his skin and extremities are so painfully sensitive. "I'm not attracted to men, Connor," He insists.

"Obviously," Connor says darkly with a pointed flick of the eye downwards. Haytham is still erect, the offending flesh oblivious to the mortification it had just caused, impervious to Connor's icy stare and Haytham's deep, desperate shame.

Haytham sees this for what it is. Connor _can't_ think that his father is actually attracted to him... can he? _Surely he can't think me that monstrous. No,_ He tells himself. The boy just is reacting the same way Haytham had to Connor's persistent entreaties hours before, fueling the fire of his anger and frustration with the most convenient offense available. Haytham had used the information about the upcoming siege of Philadelphia to beat Connor with, and Connor is using Haytham's treacherous body to do the same. Not that Haytham can really blame him; god knows how he would have reacted if he'd been woken by Connor in a similar fashion.

Haytham flushes even redder than before. "Have you convinced yourself that your conception was immaculate, you arrogant little imbecile?"

Connor, who is 'little' in no way, blushes and crosses his heavily muscled arms over his chest, the chords tense and rippling beneath his tanned skin. "Oh, so it's my _mother_ you think of when you start to—"

"I am _not_ a sodomite, boy," Haytham snarls. "And if I was, what makes you think I'd want to bugger my own son? What makes you think you're such an _irresistible_ catch?"

"Perhaps the raging erection pressed against my backside almost every night?" Connor sneers, eyes hard and malicious. "Perhaps _because_ of my mother? You were always telling me aboard the Aquila that I _so_ reminded you of her."

And Haytham actually laughs. It's a hoarse croak and sounds almost pained, but it's a laugh just the same. This is, by leaps and bounds, the most absurd argument he's ever had. He even feels a smirk tug at the corners of his lips.

"Take my word for it, lad; you aren't even _half_ the woman your mother was."

Connor stares at him, mouth hanging open, obviously trying to work out just what the hell Haytham had meant by his words, and his befuddled expression elicits an involuntary chuckle. And then Connor realizes that it was meant to be a joke. A joke from his hateful, scarred and battered father who, before that, had hardly said a word to him that wasn't tinged with acid. Connor's brow softens, his eyes losing their accusatory glare. The boy gives him a small, sad smile.

"There will never be another woman like her," Connor says quietly. Haytham realizes that he had said 'was' out of habit. Past tense. And Connor had not corrected him. Haytham's heart clenches in his chest. This is a pain he's all too familiar with. What's that French term for it? Déjà vu. Only it really _has_ happened before, in his other life, and this time he knows he will not be surprised by Connor's words.

"She's gone, isn't she?" Haytham asks anyway, although from the expression on Connor's face he knows the answer. The boy's mouth tightens and his chin dimples but his eyes do not mist. Connor gives a slight nod.

"It is my fault," Connor says. Haytham frowns. Of course the boy would think that. Connor was accustomed to bearing huge and unreasonable burdens; of course he would assume another one and heave it onto his shoulders along with all the others.

"I'm sure that's not true," Haytham says, and means it, because it's _not_ true. He knows that for a fact. "How did it happen?"

"Washington." Connor spits the name like a curse. Haytham sighs. This world was so damnably strange and yet so familiar at the same time. "I could not save her. I can _never_ save _anyone_, it seems." Connor gives him a strange look that he's unsure how to interpret.

"Did he burn down the village?" Haytham asks.

Connor gives him a suprised look. "How did you know?"

"I prevented him from burning it before, years ago. In this—whatever the hell it is. _This_ life."

Connor frowns, brow beetling, "I can remember..." He struggles for a moment. "There was a house in the woods. You were there."

"I was."

"And then we left. Ista and I," he elaborates. "But not you."

Haytham shifts uncomfortably. "So you can remember both lives?"

"Not well," Connor says, and then, "Almost not at all. It's indistinct, like parts of a dream. Can you?"

_Like it was only minutes ago_, Haytham thinks ruefully, but instead says, "Very clearly."

It's the boy's turn to look uncomfortable. His eyes settle on the window where there is light beginning to seep into the fragment of visible sky. "What was it like, when I killed you?" He asks tentatively.

Haytham frowns. That was one hell of a question... What exactly was he asking? How had it felt when Connor had goaded and fought him to the point of near madness with childish notions of freedom and all too well-placed blows, enraged his father to the point where Haytham had honestly considered murder? How it was to have one's only child—more than that, his only family, his only hope of reconciliation between Templar and Assassin—stab him in the neck? How it was to gamble his life to protect the friend that had howled for the boy's blood?

He can't even begin to answer any of that. Doesn't have any answers to give, so Haytham tells him about the more physical effects.

"Honestly? I'm not sure. I remember your blade and then... And then I think I babbled something, I don't remember what, and then there was just..." How could he describe it? "And then there was nothing."

He had never really expected anything to happen when he died. He knew what he was _supposed_ to believe, what that charlatan Jesus and all the others that had possessed certain Pieces of Eden had wanted the world to think, but Haytham was armed with far more information than the average man. He didn't despise Christianity. Rather the opposite in fact; the religion had treated his Order well, the Roman Catholic Church being a particularly useful tool, but it had been Haytham's experience that Heaven and Hell were places on earth that men made themselves. He expected that after he was dead he would just cease to exist and that would be the end of it.

And then there really _had_ been nothing. That was the only way he could describe it, really. Just... Nothing. A total absence of being. Terrifying, absolute in its non-existence, a void that had lasted for millennia or perhaps only fractions of a second, and then suddenly—

"And then I was at Fort George. _Still_ there, like I'd never left, and Charles—"

There's a clang at the far end of the hall, followed by the stomp of several sets of boots. Haytham and Connor bear identical grimaces.

Connor quickly gets to his feet. Haytham lies back down on the bed, facing the wall, praying that the men are just bringing food, hoping that they won't see what state he's in. There's five of them, though, far too many just be carrying breakfast. The guards might be coming to take one or perhaps both of them. Haytham quickly covers himself with a blanket.

"How's the whore and the dog this fine mornin'?" One of them asks. He recognizes the voice. It's the same guard from last night, the one that had brought the means to dress Haytham's wounds. Connor doesn't immediately answer. Haytham can feel the tension thrumming in the air.

"Hungry," Connor decides, his tone forced but carefully neutral. So, he was going to try the diplomatic route. Perhaps he thought that treating the guard with more civility and respect than he himself was afforded would curry some sort of favor.

"Good," the guard says, "Maybe you'll actually be entertainin' to watch today."

"Another fight." It's not a question. Haytham can hear the tinge of despair in Connor's voice.

"That's right. You win, you eat." There's the clang of the door being unlocked, a squeak of rusting hinges, the scrape of something across the stone floor. "This tray is for him. Get him up and fed. Then you're comin' with us."

Haytham feels the boy step close to him. "Wake up, Haytham," He says quietly.

And then the boy grasps the bare skin of his shoulder and, good lord, his _skin—_it feels suddenly hot, like a sunburn where Connor touches him, only that particular sensation never made his toes curl, his cock ache or wrung a half-strangled moan from his throat. Connor withdraws like he's been burnt but the touch still lingers.

Shit. Goddamned bloody-fuck _aphrodisiac—_

"Oh ho ho, looks like we interrupted something," A second guard chuckles.

"That right?" The first guard comments as Haytham forces himself to sit upright, making his condition woefully apparent. "Ah, looks like the bitch is in heat this morning!" Several of them laugh. Haytham's face burns. He keeps his eyes to the floor.

"Hey, Whitney, weren't you complainin' that little wife of yours won't polish your knob?" A third asks.

One of the guards towards the back of the corridor shifts uncomfortably. "Well—I—I don't—"

"Step right up; this one 'ere's a champion cocksucker—"

Connor cuts him off with a growl, "You are not to touch him!"

The collective group of them pauses for a moment, some of them apparently startled that the boy would dare presume to tell them what to do.

"No?" One of them inquires, smirking darkly at the boy's insolence, "How you gonna stop us, monkey?"

"He's still hurt," Connor snarls at the man.

"Not a surprise. His Majesty was set on fuckin' the defiance out o' him." Haytham hears Connor's sharp intake of breath through his nose, can feel the anger radiating off of him.

_No_, He silently screams at the boy, _Calm yourself, I'll be alright, just stand down! Have a little goddamned self-preservation for once; it's nothing I haven't done before, apparently_—

"He is—" Connor hesitates, stammers, tries to come up with a verbal defense. "He is the king's slave. Washington will be furious if—"

"He'll be right irritated if the slave dies," The first guard interrupts, "But short of killin' him, I can do whatever I like. In this corridor, boyo, _I'm_ the one who's king."

It's the older one that had answered, the one that Haytham recognizes as the man from last night. His blue uniform is of a slightly better cut than the other guards, has more embellishment. The warden, maybe? Is that why he seems so familiar? No, it's more than that. There's something else... and then Haytham realizes that the man was once a Templar. Minor, low-ranking. One of Church's subordinates. In his previous life, the man had been the one to bust Haytham's lip out in the frontier, when father and son had briefly been allies in the cause of hunting down and eradicating that twice-over traitor. Here, he is apparently the mercurial ruler of this sad little kingdom.

"I will not let you do that," Connor says, his voice the low rumble of an approaching storm, and there's a finality to it that makes the hair rise on the backs of his father's arms.

One of the guards lunges forward with a polished wooden club, held high to strike at the boy's face. "Insolent, fucking heathen!" The guard snarls with all the fervor and vitriol of a fanatic.

For an instant, Connor does nothing, and Haytham for one awful instant he thinks he's going to see the boy's scalp split open at the temple but, no, the boy was just _waiting_, ever so patient, and then at the very last instant he _moves_. He sidesteps easily, almost lazily, the guard overextending himself to compensate at the last minute but his club misses its target by inches but what may as well been miles. This isn't Connor—the boy with the sad eyes and the reserved, ever-so-elusive smile. This is the peerless Mohawk warrior, the unflinching Captain of the Aquila, the grim Assassin that had brought Grandmaster Haytham Kenway's precious Order to its ever-loving knees. Connor seizes the man by the wrist and for a ludicrous instant it looks like the two are going to dance a minuet, and then Connor uses the man's momentum against him, slamming the man face first into the brick wall with enough force that the sickening snap of cartilage and bone can be heard over someone's warning shout—"Men! I need more men!"—and the guard slides bonelessly to the floor.

Connor's father watches him, marveling—had Haytham ever been so fast, moved so fluidly? It'd been a long time since he'd had a young man's body, moved with such an effortless, natural grace, unhindered by old wounds and aching joints. Another guard instantly follows, this time aiming low, poised to hit the Assassin in the gut with the butt of a musket but Connor deftly turns the blow with his forearm and then uses the same hand to grab at the offending weapon, turning it, sending the bayonet to slash blood across the howling guard's face as he staggers back.

The Assassin's eyes catch his for an instant, and he's just a boy again, looking at his father pleadingly—_Fight with me_, They say,_ We can do this. _And he wants to—he does, more than _anything—_wants to feel the hot blood lust sing in his veins again, wants to hold a man's life in his hands and then reap the pleasure of snuffing it out like a candle—but he _can't_, doesn't the boy know that? Can't he see what his father has been reduced to? How weak he's become?

There's the ominous click of metal and both father and son know what that sound means, both of them looking at once for the source—It's the warden, Church's flunkey, and his pistol is out, hammer ready to fall. He isn't aiming at Connor, though; he's got his sights on Haytham.

"Stop!" He shouts, "Nobody move a fuckin' muscle or I'll blow his bloody brains out!"

Connor hesitates and Haytham wants to scream at the boy, tell him to keep moving, to keep fighting. _It's a bluff, they won't shoot me._ And even if the warden _did_ shoot him—well, no great loss, he was supposed to be dead, anyway, and then they wouldn't be able to use him against the boy, he'd be free to slaughter his way right out the front door—

But Connor freezes on the spot. _Idiot child,_ Haytham despairs.

In an instant, they're on him. Haytham just sits there like a mute, stupid doll, his hands clenching in the fabric of his pants; never before has he felt so helpless to stop what's happening. With the exception of the warden, the unconscious man, and the guard that's trying to hold his gaping and bleeding face together, the guards descend with fists and clubs, moving to viciously subdue the now unresisting Assassin. He forces himself not to flinch when he hears Connor grunt in pain, lets nothing pass over his face as the boy is hauled bodily to his feet, hands wrenched behind his back.

"Goddamn bloody savage," The warden huffs, replacing his pistol in its holster and striding forward, punching Connor in the gut. _Coward_, Haytham thinks. Didn't want to get in close while the boy had a fighting chance, it's only when his enemy can do nothing to help himself that the man strikes. Connor doubles over with a hiss, his teeth bared.

"What now, sir?" One of the guards asks, the youngest of the group, "Do we kill him?"

"No," The warden snaps, "_Now_ we're gonna have our fun."

"But sir, he's wanted in the throne room, the fight—"

"Can wait," the warden growls, and his hands are working at the buttons at the front of his breeches. "If the savage is willin' to fight so hard for this slave's virtue, then he's gonna watch me fuck the slut into the floor."


	13. Chapter 12

There's the tramp of more boots from the hall, moving quickly, other guards alerted to the commotion.

"What in the world happened?"

"Indian got uppity," Answers the warden, pushing Haytham face down on the pallet, the man's eager hands working at the drawstring of his prisoner's trousers. When rough hands touch Haytham's bare skin he moans into the mattress, hips bucking of their own accord against the friction and cruel laughter erupts from the knot of guards.

Someone is less than amused, however. "Sir, we have our orders," Someone says, the young one that the others had called Whitney.

"His Majesty will understand," The warden says. Well, that was new; those under control of the Apple thinking for themselves, defying orders. Perhaps—just perhaps—Washington's power isn't as all-encompassing as previously supposed. The two wounded men are assessed. The one is still unconscious, eyes rolled back in his head even as blood pours from his broken nose at an alarming rate. The other grimaces and hisses as a third man prods the wound at his cheek, making worried sounds.

"Get them out of here," The warden orders.

"Stop this!" Connor gasps, and Haytham can't bear to look his way, his skin crawling despite the fire that's raging beneath his skin. He knows what he'll see; Connor's bloodied face contorted in horror and rage, chest heaving. He can't do this, he _can't_, not with so many watching, not with his own son in the same room. But yet again he doesn't have a choice in the matter. His body wants it, even if his guts are roiling with disgust and hatred, and he is in no position to argue. His cock is still stupidly, absurdly hard, against all reason. _I asked for this, brought this on myself_, He thinks, dizzily, _I wouldn't let Connor throw out that damned tea..._

"What's wrong, sweetheart? You can have him back when we're done, we're just borrowin' him for a spell," One of them says, laughing.

"Jealous," Another says, "Probably thought 'e was gonna keep the slut all to hisself." Of course they would think that. They probably assume Connor is as vile and lecherous as the rest of them.

"Not even an animal would stoop so low," Connor seethes and he jerks as one of the men strikes him in the ribs.

"I've had enough of his lip. Gag him," The warden says and Haytham can hear the rustle of fabric as the man undoes the front of his breeches. The man grabs Haytham's ass like he's checking the ripeness of a melon and the sensation shoots heat up his spine. He hikes back his hips and moans like a whore when the guard fingers him open. His hand is slick with something cold, oil or grease perhaps—obviously the man had intended to fuck him all along, perhaps considering it recompense for the small gift of alcohol and bandages the night before.

Haytham trembles. Not from fear, though. He has no fear. Not even when he feels the warden press against him, feels the slickness of the man's cock against his ass, the hand stinging the barely-healed wounds of his tender back. There's no room for fear, not with the disgust and rage that fill him. Quickly, far too quickly to be anything close to comfortable, the man positions himself, presses in, and Haytham gasps and writhes beneath him, focusing on the blunt ache in his guts that is too strong to be called pleasure. The warden seats himself to the hilt with a satisfied grunt and Haytham twists his head, lets his tangled mess of hair fall over his face the better to obscure the tight set of his jaw and the murder in his eyes. How _dare_ they? How dare they do this to him, to his son? What gives them the right to humiliate him like this?

If only he were not so weak. If there's one thing that Haytham despises above all else, it's weakness... No. _No_, he was not weak_,_ he tells himself. _Damn it, stop. It's too easy to be the victim._ What in the hell had he become? He wasn't some cringing, broken slave, wasn't a wanton whore—those were merely the projections of his enemies, circumstances beyond his control. He's Grandmaster Haytham Kenway, son of one of the most feared and respected pirates to have ever sailed the Caribbean, father to one of the deadliest Assassins ever produced.

These men, _they_ were the weak ones. They are nothing. Small, petty cowards who try to compensate for their own powerlessness by preying on those who were even more defenseless than themselves, violating him because they knew there would be no consequences. He thinks on this, grips his hate tight to him as the man behind him pulls back and then plunges forward again, establishing a quick rhythm, his hands burning Haytham's hips, his hold lining up with the dark purple bruises left by Hickey's fingers.

He groans in response, giving them what they want to hear, his hips churning, all the while thinking, letting his mind wander, trying to distract himself from the pleasure that is even more vile and insistent than the pain. His mind. That was what Washington wanted. The man had only achieved victory through the intelligence and ambitions of other men.

He'd been able to resist Washington's power by sheer force of will. It was that stubbornness and will that had forced Washington's insidious power out of his soul, his resistance that had enraged the man to striking him again and again until Haytham had collapsed on the throne room floor in a bloody heap. His body may have atrophied, had been maimed and mistreated, but his mind is as keen as ever. Reginald Birch had not seen fit to elevate Haytham to Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite because he could leap across rooftops or wield a blade—It was Haytham Kenway's cold, calculating intelligence that set him apart from other men and made him truly dangerous. Was that the point of all this? To torture, abuse, and humiliate him until he breaks? To crack open Haytham's mind so that Washington can peruse it at leisure like a book in a library?

_Well, he can't have it,_ Haytham thinks feverishly, gritting his teeth, _That bastard can take everything else from me: my freedom, my strength, my dignity, but he can never have my mind—_

But he can hear Connor's sharp, furious breathing between the slap of flesh on flesh, and suddenly he's not so sure.

"Get over there, lad," The warden growls and for one improbable and horrified moment he thinks that the man means Connor, but Haytham peeks out through his curtain of hair and sees the youngest guard shift uncomfortably from side to side.

"I-I don't think it wise," He stutters, unsure, but definitely tempted.

"No? Why not? Look at him, he's practically begging for it," Another guard says. "Go on with ya."

The lad wavers, debates with himself, but in the end he steps forward and unbuttons his breeches with shaking fingers, quickly pumping at his half-hard cock. He seizes Haytham by the hair with forced bravado and pulls him up to eye level with the boy's flesh.

"Suck me," He commands loudly, the force of his words diminished by the way his voice cracks on the first syllable. Haytham takes him into his mouth, trying not to cringe at the acrid taste of piss or the way the flesh feels like a firebrand against his lips. The boy's moan is high and girlish when Haytham lathes at the underside of the head with his tongue and his hips buck helplessly into Haytham's mouth. Pathetic.

_Well, go right ahead, lad, _He thinks, delirious with sensation, _Help yourself. Have your pleasure while you can. Your cock will be the first thing I take from you, when I get you alone. I'll shove it down your throat before I spill your guts to the floor like swine in an abattoir._

He had taught Charles that there was more than one way to kill a man. The obvious courses of action were to target the brain or the heart, of course, or slit the throat or slash at the soft underbelly. Men such as Haytham and Charles are much more acquainted with the workings of the body than the average man. Few are aware of just how comparatively little pressure it takes to snap a spine, how delicate the kidneys are, how much blood runs under the arm pits. Or how much blood runs through the groin, for that matter. He still has his teeth—men are such fragile things, no one knows this better than he, it would only take a few pounds of pressure—

The warden hits that _something_ inside him that makes his limbs tremble and forces a startled gasp from his throat. Again, and he hikes his hips, pushing back—again and he moans, embarrassingly loud around the flesh in his mouth, pleasure and pain washing together and overlapping until he's not sure which is which. The man's breathing has become erratic, labored, fingers embedded in Haytham's skin. Haytham is close himself, cock hard and weeping with precome, bobbing obscenely with every thrust, throbbing with the beat of his heart. The warden's hips still and Haytham recoils at the awful sensation of the man's release.

The warden sighs contentedly, patting Haytham on the ass almost fondly, as if he were a horse or a dog that had pleased him. "Atta boy," He croons and pulls out. Haytham feels a fresh hot mess slide down the insides of his thighs but before he can even process how disgusting he feels there's another man taking the warden's place, seating himself in one cruel thrust that makes him cry out and clench his fists in the fabric of the mattress. The boy before him sputters and groans, his fingers tangled in Haytham's hair, forcing Haytham's head to and fro. The others laugh, make vulgar jokes or, worse, trade small-talk as if there isn't a man being speared at both ends before them. As if they aren't waiting their turn to do the same. All of them making meaningless noise. Except for Connor, of course. Somehow his silence is the worst of all. He can't even begin to imagine what the boy must be feeling. Hopefully the boy has shut his eyes. Not that it helps, he's sure. Doubtless the boy is helpless to block out the slap and squelch of flesh on flesh, flesh _in_ flesh, Haytham's moans and the sighs and grunts of the two men using him—

Haytham comes with a surprised grunt, spraying the mattress below him. It's the least satisfying orgasm he's ever had, more like the spasm of a cramping muscle than the glorious release that he requires. He's still frustratingly hard, his skin is still aflame, balls aching and he moans plaintively around the cock in his mouth. The boy gasps at the sensation and spills. Haytham gags, sputters, and coughs, some of the mess ending up down his chin and stains the buff fabric of the boy's breeches. One of the guards notices and guffaws. If Haytham's face wasn't flushed before it most certainly is now. As soon as the boy removes himself, cursing at the state of his clothes, another man comes to take his place, pumping his thick member, grinning. Haytham inwardly grimaces.

"Wot th' 'ell is going 'ere?" A man shouts. Hickey. It must be. Haytham'd know that absurd cockney accent anywhere.

The man approaching Haytham suddenly looks bashful, like a child caught stealing a cooling pie from a window sill. Equally, the man at his backside pauses.

"What business is it of yours, Hickey?" Someone challenges him.

"It's the fuckin' King's business—an' that's _Captain_ to you, gobshite." A pause. "Well. Now I see why it's taking so long to feed 'im 'is food," Hickey says, his words droll but his tone serious.

"We was just havin' a spot of fun," One of them says.

"You got any idea what 'appens to little worker bees that disobey?" Hickey growls menacingly, "They get squashed. Get 'em to the throne room. _Now_."


	14. Chapter 13

In a flurry, father and son are chained about the neck once more and hurried down the long hall. No breakfast for either of them, such is Hickey's haste to get them to the throne room. Haytham feels wretched; his knees bruised once again, the muscles of his legs smarting and aching, some of the cuts that his son had doctored bleeding anew beneath his shirt. He staggers like a drunk, legs trembling, skin still aflame where he had been touched. The boy had been made to clean him before their departure. Haytham would have rather stumbled into the throne room with his pants around his ankles, still soiled, then to have had the boy forced to touch him in such an embarrassingly intimate way. But no one asked his opinion, of course.

Connor walks ahead of Haytham, head down, shoulders hunched, arms bound behind his back, hands clenched so tight that it's a wonder that they do not bleed. He can't even begin to imagine what the boy must be feeling. Disgust, probably. Hatred, for a certainty. Despair... He hopes not.

When they enter the throne room, Washington and some of his commanders are seated at a large table overflowing with charts, correspondence, and food. Food. Oh, God, the _food—_there's bacon and honeyed ham, sausage, freshly baked bread, fried eggs, cider. It's been so long since he's had anything but gray slop, stale bread and those damned herbs—it's almost enough to make Haytham forget about the man consuming it. Almost, but not quite. Washington's eyes flick up at their approach, chips of ice, and there's that old, familiar fear again; muscles in his throat and chest constrict, his blood turn cold in his veins, all his previous feelings of rebelliousness evaporating.

"Why such a delay?" Washington asks, annoyed.

"The savage attacked us," One of the guards sneers.

"Unprovoked?"

The guard hesitates. "Not—entirely."

Washington's attention turns to Haytham. He can feel his face burning from embarrassment, hot as a sunburn. "And him?"

"Took the brunt of the punishment."

"Fine," Washington says, apparently uninterested, and points his fork behind Haytham and Connor to where the banquette tables have been arranged into a circle again, legs facing out. "Leave the bindings on, I think. And the gag."

The blood in Haytham's veins turns to ice.

One of the guards snorts. "So much for entertainment," he hears the warden mutter.

They're going to kill him. They're going to kill his only son. His mind races. There's too many of them. Haytham is unarmed, weakened, he can't—but there's the Apple. It's there on an ornate stand next to the throne. If he can get to it, perhaps—but, no, the guard that holds his chain reaches under the table, secures the end of it around a leg of heavy oak. They're forcing the struggling Connor into the ring; he's growling past the rag stuffed into his mouth, doing his best to yank free, to stomp on the toes of the guards that man-handle him, but they're yanking his head back by his collar, cutting off his air.

Haytham watches, frozen. What does he do? What _can_ he do? One of the guards grasps Haytham by the shoulders, forcing him down on his knees next to Washington's place at the table. Should he give himself away? Reveal that he's aware? Grovel and beg for the monster to spare his son? Would Washington even do it? He has only one bargaining chip left to him, the thing that Washington wants the most out of him—his mind. Would the monster let the boy go if he... if he submitted?

A ringing voice gives him pause.

"You're sick bloody bastards, every last one of ya!"

Haytham can't help the quick snap of his head towards the impromptu ring. There's another slave standing there, an iron collar about his scrawny neck, his tall, lean frame drowning in rags that may have once been black. There's something about the man that's familiar. Something about the eyes. It's hard to determine who he is, though; his face is so gaunt, so emaciated, every line of his face etched in grit and fury. He could be thirty, he could be sixty.

"Mind yourself, peasant," A guard snaps.

"Or what? You'll beat me? Turn me into _that?" _He jabs a finger in Haytham's direction and the Templar fights the urge to recoil. "Go ahead. Try. I fuckin' dare ya." His accent is unmistakably Irish, low-country, working class.

Duncan Little, an Assassin. Haytham's surprised he hadn't recognized him sooner. Haytham's guts twist. Duncan's face likewise contorts in disgust as Connor is shoved forward over the barrier of tables, landing in an ungainly, struggling heap on the flagstones.

"What in the hell is this?" The Irish Assassin demands, lips pulled back in a snarl. Half of his front teeth are missing or broken.

"Your latest challenge," One of the guards replies.

"Do you mean to have me kill an unarmed, bound chap?" He sounds incredulous and unnerved. When the guards back off, leaving Connor to the man's mercy, he scoffs, "Well, that's a new low..."

He reaches down—not to strangle the boy, but to grasp him under the arms, "C'mon, lad, up with ya," he grunts. He winces from the exertion; Duncan may be taller, but Connor outweighs him by a good margin. Connor staggers to his feet, tries to say something, eyes wide and frantic, but the gag muffles his words. The Irishman tugs the fabric from his mouth. "There y'are, lad; never say I never did anything for ya."

"Duncan!" Connor gasps, "You're alive!"

So, the boy knows the Irishman as well. Had the man been an Assassin in both lives?

Duncan's brow beetles. "Do I know ya, lad?"

The look on Connor's face is agonized. Of course Duncan doesn't know him. That would be far too convenient. Connor is the only person Haytham has found in this strange place to be aware of the true reality, the only one aside from himself to know that this world is part of some insane fantasy.

"I...Well..." Haytham can see the boy's mind working, trying to come up with something that doesn't sound completely and utterly mad. "No, but I know of you, sir. From before," He says finally as Duncan side-steps to remove the lashings from his wrists.

Connor is about to go on but somewhere there's the sound of screaming, followed by an agonized, distant wail that echoes from down an anterior hall. Elsewhere in the building there's some other ungodly form of torture taking place. Both men look up at the sound, their faces troubled—and then the sound abruptly ceases. The implications of the silence are even more unnerving than the screaming.

"I know you as a Brother," Connor says shakily, softly, when the two turn their attention back to each other. Had Haytham not been straining to hear, he would have missed it.

Duncan stares at Connor, face anxious. He seizes Connor about the shoulders, his face drawn, whispers something urgent that sounds like a question or a plea. Connor shakes his head slightly, dark eyes full of sympathy and concern, whispers something in kind that is likewise too soft for anyone but the two of them to hear. There's a brief, intense exchange. Whatever the discourse, it seems to bring peace to neither of them. Duncan lets out a deep breath, shoulders collapsing, brow beetled. He releases Connor and shakes his head.

"I suppose it doesn't matter what we used to be; only what we've become," Duncan says with a glance to Washington and his men, voice rough. He steps away from Connor, never once presenting his back. He squares his shoulders and balls his large hands into sharp fists, bringing them up before his chest, every muscle in his body tensing.

"What is this?" Connor asks, clearly confused.

"Survival of the fittest, lad," Duncan responds, and then pulls his right fist back, launches it, goes right for the face. Connor sees the strike coming, eyes wide and shocked—perhaps he can't believe that the Irishman would ever seek to strike him—and he just barely manages to knock the blow aside with his forearm.

"What are you doing?" Connor hisses. "We fight for the same cause!"

"Sorry, lad," Duncan huffs, drawing his fists back in a defensive posture. "It's you or me. Thought I'd give ya a fighting chance, but that's all the quarter I can afford to give ya."

"I don't want to fight you!" Connor shouts.

"Well, good on you, lad, but I've not had any food for two days—and if beating you means I get to eat—" He lunges at Connor, aiming high again, but Connor artfully dodges, landing the man a blow to the gut in retaliation, "—Ah, good right hook," Duncan gasps.

_He'll be fine_, Haytham tries to tell himself. _He's young. Healthy. He has a good thirty pounds of muscle on the man. _But fear claws at his chest. If it were a pure contest of skill and strength, Haytham would have had every confidence that Connor would have been the victor, but he's uncertain. The boy's soft heart will be the death of him, he thinks, maybe not today, but soon. These chaotic bouts have a sort of system to them. Food is the prize. If a man wins a fight by killing his opponent, he receives full meals for two days. If he merely lets his opponent yield, he gets about half, just enough to keep his stomach from eating itself, but not much more than that. If he loses and the victor is merciful enough to let him live, he gets nothing. It drives even good men into desperate, half-starved, violent rages. More than that, it saps their willpower, makes them more susceptible to the Apple's influence.

Duncan's fist connects. Connor gasps, staggers back, hand pressed to his ribs, wincing, eyes flashing in fear and betrayal. There's nothing Haytham can do for his son. Haytham can't even beg on his son's behalf; they would know that Connor had helped him regain his mind and the boy's punishment would be all the worse. Haytham watches helplessly, all of his righteous anger and indignation replaced by concern and anxiety.

Connor could probably kill the man easily, but he's deflecting, on the defensive, pleading with Duncan—"We have to stop this, we are playing right into his hands!"—but it's no use. Duncan's blows are fast and brutal, meant for maximum damage, face set in grim determination—if he'd had any reservations about killing the stranger set before him, they're gone now, pushed aside in favor of a hot meal and living another day. Haytham wonders if there's something else driving the Irishman. Was Washington hanging something over him? Did the man have any family to exploit? Were there any other Assassins in the holding cells, their lives hanging on the outcome of the match?

They come together, grappling, Connor trying to restrain the other man, Duncan doing his very best to pound Connor's ribs and stomp toes before Connor lurches them to the ground, the two of them struggling for dominance.

Something moist and warm hits Haytham on the cheek. He looks down at the ground, puzzled. It's a bit of bacon, mostly white with fat, glistening with grease. Haytham looks up, narrowly avoiding locking eyes with Washington. The monster's lip curls and his eyes twinkle in evident delight. He raises his eyebrows expectantly and gives a curt nod as if to say _well, go on then._

Haytham has never hated anyone so much in his entire life, wants to send his hidden blade right through one of the man's mocking blue eyes and straight into that sick, delusional brain—but he has no blade of course. Just his hands. And any attempt at murder at this point would be suicide. So, he plays the role that he has been forced to take. Haytham reaches for the bit of meat with his hand but he hesitates noting how crooked his fingers are. Reluctantly, he places his hand flat on the floor, does the same with the other, and picks up the morsel with his lips. The piece of meat is delectable after going so long without but his treatment is so revolting, so abhorrent that he has a hard time swallowing.

Haytham realizes that he's paying his son and Duncan more far too much attention for a supposedly drug-addled slave. He stares down at the floor beneath his aching knees, trying to affect an air of indifference, but his hands twitch in his lap every time he hears a pained grunt or gasp, his own hands tightening into fists, bunching into the fabric of his filthy trousers when he hears the sound of a connecting impact. But Washington's interference brings him back to the matter at hand, to the real conflict and the larger concern.

"...And we've gotten a letter from a Frenchie," Someone says. General Putnam, he thinks—his face is blocked by the table, Haytham can't see more than the man's booted legs under the table. There's a whiff of cigar smoke; it must be him. He's seated near Washington, facing the two men battling for their lives.

"Oh?" asks Washington, sounding bored. From the projection of his voice Haytham can tell that he's looking at the fight, not at his general. "What does it say, sir?"

Putnam's laugh is a harsh bark. "How the hell should I know, y'Grace? It's in French!"

"Arrogant, insufferable..." A rustle of parchment. "What was the messenger's explanation?"

"Couldn't say," Putnam says, sounding like he's trying and failing to keep the glee from his voice, "My boys'd riddled him with shot on first sight. By the time we figured out who he was, he was babbling away in French and couldn't make himself understood."

"Dead now, I presume?" A pause. "Lord Franklin, you know a bit of the language, do you not?" A rustle of parchment being passed from one hand to another.

_Lord_ Franklin? Of course; Haytham had been scrutinizing the legs of the man seated next to Putnam, wondering who they belonged to. He's wearing slippers rather than shoes, and the fabric of his socks are pulled tight over grotesquely swollen and lumpy ankles. Gout, most like. He wonders what sort of hideous thing the man had done to earn the title of 'Lord.'

"I do, I can try to translate—_Oh._ Oh, yes, this is rather significant." Franklin sounds excited, which probably bodes ill. "It appears that the addressee rightfully recognizes you as the—"

There's a howl of pain; Connor's—Haytham looks up, he can't help it—Duncan has a hold of his son's left arm, twisting it backwards at an unnatural angle. Haytham's heart rises in his chest, but he looks away again, has to keep listening, it's the only thing he can do that's useful now—

"As I was saying," Franklin says irritably, _ahem_-ing and clearing his throat, "This document is addressed to the rightful king, sovereign of Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut—all of the colonies, in fact—and that he wishes to extend his hand in friendship and welcome his Majesty in—oh my."

"What, Ben? Don't keep us in suspense," Putnam chides.

"It's—this is signed by Louis himself. This is the King of France acknowledging your claim on the Americas."

There's a silence punctuated only by Connor and Duncan's scuffling. "I don't get it," Putnam says, breaking the quiet between the men. "I thought they hated us. They're still aiding the rebel scum in Philadelphia."

"I've heard reports," Franklin says, "That the French peasantry are growing increasingly unhappy with their situation. Some are agitating for a revolution of their own. Perhaps by recognizing a fellow monarch over the absurdity and chaos of a democratic system—"

"There's still a goddamned armada at the mouth of the Hudson. Plainly no one's told _them_ their boy-king is on our side," Putnam rumbles, interrupting, his voice dark and mistrustful.

"Perhaps you're mistaken, Lord Franklin," Suggests Washington, sounding disappointed.

"No, this signature is genuine, I'm certain of it," Franklin insists. "And this paper is from his Majesty's personal stationary—notice the crest? And perhaps they _have_ sent word to Philadelphia and New York but it has yet to reach them; crossing the Atlantic is quite perilous in winter."

"Well, then," Washington says, "Perhaps we should take this missive at face value, gentleman."

He sounds inordinately pleased. Clearly his ego had been stroked by the affirmation that his actions have been just. Perhaps he feels that he is finally receiving the acknowledgment, recognition, and respect that he deserves.

"There's another page in a different hand, some emissary, apparently. The bearer of the letter—" Another shout from the ring, this time Duncan, accompanied by the snap of bone and the cheer of bloodlust from the spectators that have gathered—Haytham wills himself to keep his eyes to the floor, heart pounding in his ears.

"I really wish they would get that over with," Franklin grumbles, probably annoyed at the second interruption.

"Losin' your taste for battle, old man?" Putnam ribs him.

"The quick bouts are more interesting."

"If his Majesty still had that'un in the ring, the wolf-boy'd probably be dead by now," Putnam comments. Washington's hand descends and it takes every fiber of control in Haytham's being not to jerk away as Washington pats him on the head.

"It had become apparent that he wasn't going to be broken in by fighting," Washington says. No. That was certainly true. Had Haytham had reservations about killing those who least deserved it? Yes, of course, but he put his survival ahead of theirs, compartmentalized their suffering and distanced it from himself. Fighting had been his entire life, he wasn't about to allow it to be the death of him. In the days that he had been a pit fighter and not a pet he had never once gone hungry and the killings didn't have the demoralizing effect that Washington had hoped for; he'd been as violent and resistant as the day he had been presented to the madman's court.

"How's that working out?" asks Putnam.

"He's certainly more pliable. But, no, he still resists my influence," Washington admits sourly.

"His knowledge and skills would be a boon to our cause, your Highness," Franklin reminds Washington.

"He's been behaving strangely ever since I put that savage in the same cell with him," Washington notes. "Perhaps the stress of a constant companion will break him."

"Not that savage _there?_" Putnam asks, incredulous. "That _thing_ is an animal. Killed Benedict in cold blood 'fore he was able to raise the alarm. Massacred a score of men out in the wilderness." Haytham feels a glow of pride, despite his deep unease.

"And yet he seemed to be quite distressed upon first seeing our little pet," Washington remarks, tossing a bit of sausage to the floor. This time, Haytham doesn't hesitate. "I cannot begin to fathom the implications of such a thing."

"Perhaps they knew each other, once," Franklin suggests. His legs straighten and he lifts himself off his chair with a groan. Haytham catches the flash of spectacles and a bald pate over the edge of the table.

"You know," Franklin muses, "There is a sort of resemblance between the two."

Oh, no. No, he can't think that. God only knows what will happen if Washington figures out that the two men are father and son—he'll pit them against each other, he'll divide and conquer—

He hears the scrape of Putnam's chair. "Yes," he remarks dryly, "their dirt gives them almost the same coloring."

Franklin sighs impatiently, plopping himself back down. "No, you dolt. The set of the chin, the shape of the brow—"

"Your Majesty," Someone's anxious voice cuts him off. There's the click of rapidly approaching shoes on the flagstone. "So sorry to trouble you."

It's Benjamin Church. Haytham has never been so glad to hear that scheming, treacherous bastard's voice.

"My dear Doctor Church," Washington says, not unkindly, "What brings you by this morning?"

"A problem, unfortunately," Church replies. "There is a man that would improve under your benevolent influence."

"Oh?"

"The savage wounded two men; one will be scarred for life, but he should recover fully. The other man's fate is less certain. The force of the impact—I suspect there is some swelling in the brain. He may not survive the night, if his condition is not addressed."

"I've always appreciated your attentiveness towards our men, Doctor," Washington says with a touch of irritation, "But we were discussing matters of more import than one wounded soldier. You have always had my blessing to treat my men however you see fit."

"My sincerest apologies, your Grace. I'm aware that you have many matters that require your attention," Church says, "But the man is being most uncooperative. A simple trephination may alleviate his suffering, but he refuses to allow us to perform the procedure. He's also sobbing in a most unseemly way; he blames you for burning his family to death or some such nonsense. Screams it at the top of his lungs. Delusion due to the swelling, most like—he's not to be blamed for it—but he's making the other men most agitated. Some are threatening to kill him for slandering His Majesty's royal person."

The screaming from earlier; that must have been the guard. Haytham puzzles over what he's just heard, unable to keep the frown from his face, and then understanding dawns. Yes! Of course, he'd nearly forgotten—Haytham had only seen the phenomenon once before. Sometimes, when someone that is controlled by the Apple is brought very near to death, the control over them is severed and they come back to themselves. Whether or not they lived long enough to enjoy their renewed freedom is left up to chance, however.

Another shout breaks him from his reverie, and this time he can't help the snap of his head towards the ring. It's Connor. He has Duncan on the ground, pinned—but the man isn't about to yield. He's snarling, trying to buck Connor off, his fingers gnarled into claws. He's going for Connor's face, for his eyes. Connor tries to slap his hands away, tries to grab a hold of the man's wrists to restrain him, but Connor's left arm isn't cooperating and Duncan is too fast and far too desperate; his hands find purchase around Connor's thick neck.

Haytham can see the rising panic in Connor's eyes, the terror, his right hand clawing at the hands that constrict, vice-like, around his windpipe, left slapping uselessly and clumsily at Duncan's snarling face. Haytham watches, frozen, as his son's face begins to purple, reminiscent of that awful night at Fort George when everything had fallen apart. Washington and the others continue to talk amongst themselves but Haytham can't hear them, can't hear anything over the heart pounding in his ears and his son's rattling, desperate gasp.

Connor's right hand is a blur as it whips out to cover Duncan's face and the boy slams the back of the man's head into the stone floor. There's a little _pop_, like a pine knot in a fire, and Haytham knows what that sound means even before Duncan's hands loosen and fall, out-flung, as if he is set to be crucified, the strength leaving those wiry arms all at once. His mouth goes slack and his eyes open wide, as if shocked, but there's a vacant look to them. Haytham knows that expression, has seen it himself countless times before—Duncan is dead. His body will take a little time to get the message, but the Assassin is already gone.

There's some clapping, some hooting, as Connor gasps for air, chest heaving, eyes wide. "Duncan?" He asks tentatively, voice a rasping croak. He shakes the man, touches his cheek. No response. "Duncan?" He asks again, louder, this time with an edge of panic.

It's over. The relief Haytham feels is so overwhelming that there is no room for pity. Not for Duncan, anyway. People start to go about their business now that the grim show is over. Guards close in on the ring, blocking Haytham's view just as he hears an ugly, agonized sob.

Something catches Haytham's attention—a rock in an otherwise bustling stream of activity. It's a negro man, of average height, average build. Just a servant. Haytham almost dismisses him, but, no, something's off—it's the tension in his limbs, the way he's clutching the pitcher he carries so hard that it's a wonder the porcelain hasn't shattered in his hands. His face is stoic, unreadable—but those eyes are hot and furious, glaring murder at the center of the ring.

The negro must have felt Haytham's gaze because his eyes flick towards the high table and then the servant and the slave are staring right at each other.

It's _Connor_, Haytham realizes, the shock so acute that he's unable to keep it from his face.

Not his son, but _Davenport's. _

The dead boy that Haytham's son had replaced, in another place, another time. He's here, at court, and very obviously in his own right mind. But perhaps that's only obvious to Haytham. Those dark eyes look him over, widening in something like panic, studying the Templar's face, and Haytham can tell that Davenport knows as well, sees that Haytham is aware, cognizant, and the realization turns the man's eyes into chips of ice.

And then, just as quickly as it was brought on, the moment passes. Davenport's face relaxes, makes him look lazy and distant, his eyes all at once flat and disinterested, his posture slumped. He looks past Haytham as if not seeing him at all and then strides languorously away.

Haytham stares at the spot the Assassin had occupied, stunned, oblivious to what's going on behind him, around him. His mind whirls, wondering at the implications. At least he has enough presence of mind not to smirk.

_Well, _Haytham thinks,_ This should be interesting. _


End file.
